


But the Darkness Alters

by Colubrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark!Neville, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, define HEA, so that part is nice, the romances end happily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:16:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 96,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: Neville Longbottom wasn't chosen to be the hero. Draco didn't even try out. But when the war is over and the nightmares begin, the two of them, along with Hermione, will do whatever they need to to ensure another Dark Lord doesn't rise from the ashes. Road to hell, and all that...





	1. Chapter 1

It started with a boy.

Or maybe it started with a boy and a girl.

Not the same boy. That would be too easy. The first boy, he was the quiet sort. Underestimated. More powerful than people ever thought, but self-effacing until that year – that horrible year – when he learned how to lead. He had to, you see. Everyone else was too afraid and it turns out that one of the side effects of being always afraid he was doing it wrong or not good enough was that he wasn’t afraid of real monsters. He’d already imagined the very worst things that could happen so many times that, when they finally did, a part of him thought, “Is that all you have? I can handle that.”

The second boy hadn’t had the sense to be afraid of anything until it was too late. 

Worry about our first boy, Neville, watching the world fete a trio of his schoolmates who weren’t there for the worst of it. They’d gone off on a treasure hunt, of all abused things, and come back to glory and fame. They hadn’t patched up broken children, or taken beatings, or gotten up day after day after day as a place of refuge became a hell. Resentment can curdle even the best of hearts and once a man – because it’s wrong to call him a boy – has stood up and become the one people follow, once he’s earned that through blood and tears and toil, you can’t expect him to fade gracefully back into the crowd. That’s not how people work.

Worry, also, about the second boy. Draco Malfoy by name. Coward. Bully. A boy who woke to manhood in a world where it was too late for him to ever be forgiven. 

And, if you are very clever, if you are wise in the ways of stories, worry about the girl too. Because she thinks she knows them both.

. . . . . . . . . .

Class felt pointless. Draco Malfoy stabbed his knife – handed out at the beginning of class and checked carefully upon return - as if he needed a blade to hurt people, as if he would hurt people ever again - into the heart of his pomegranate and pried the thing open. Red oozed out, coating blade and fingers and wooden board.

“Careful,” Hermione Granger said. She muttered a charm to contain the juice as he stood, staring at it, frozen just a second too long.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He began to pry out seeds, plunking them one at a time into the mortar. One. Two. Three.

“It would help,” she said with a throat so tight it was a wonder words could escape it. She paused, clenched her jaw, and started again. “It would help if you paid attention.”

Four.

“I am,” he said. He was good at potions, and he could make this particular one – a tonic for magical wounds – in his sleep. He almost had, and more than once. The red of the juice had, for a moment, thrown him back. That was all.

Five.

The next seed wanted to cling to the pith and he set his knife down and used his fingers to work at prying it out. Even a speck of the white flesh that held the seeds together and the potion didn’t work. Not that you could tell when you brewed it. No. You only found that out when you gave it to someone and nothing happened. Their wound didn’t knit up. Their blood didn’t stop flowing. They died in your arms even as they drank the medicine that had been supposed to heal them. That you had made, in secret at night, specifically to heal them. He’d learned to turn every seed between his fingers and feel them. Fingers knew things eyes did not.

“Sure,” she said. “You’re careful.” The contempt was loud enough other students looked up from their own, pointless work. Slughorn, ponderous and usually inattentive, lowered the paper he was reading and peered at the pair of them over its edge. 

Hermione Granger was not back at Hogwarts as part of a program designed to rehabilitate youthful offenders. She was not here in lieu of prison time, and so her wand hung from her waist, proof she was still trusted. Draco’s eyes darted first to that stick of wood, then to the way her lip curled. 

He dropped his seed in with the rest, then put his red, stained hands on her robe and pushed her as hard as he could. She stumbled back, shocked, and Slughorn cleared his throat, ready to pronounce another detention Draco would serve. It wouldn’t involve whips, so what did he care? 

Then Hermione shoved him back. She was stronger than he would have expected, and meaner too. She pulled a wand on him and he hoped – hoped in a way he hadn’t dared to hope for anything in years, ever since (don’t think about that) – she’d just do it. 

“Both of you,” Slughorn said in a heated rush before she could, “Go see McGonagall.” When neither of them moved, he added, “Now,” with enough emphasis Hermione lowered her wand and spun on her heel, taking off for the door.

“I’ll clean it up,” Neville said quietly from the next workstation.

Draco glanced at the mortar. Six perfect seeds. It would have made a good tonic.

Then he followed Hermione Granger, beloved savior, out of the room, down the hall, and up the moving stairs to the office of the headmistress.

. . . . . . . . . .

Darkness. Darkness. Whistle.

You hear the sound when the lash hits before you feel it. Fire. The laughter. You aren’t holding up your weight anymore. The manacles dig into your wrists because your weight (less than it was, you aren’t that chubby boy anymore) -

Whistle. Fire. Laughter.

Your weight drags you down. You focus on that. The feel of the metal on your skin. There’s a sharp ridge and, in all the burning hell of pain, you can put your mind on that one thing, that flaw in the metalwork cutting into you.

You’re going to scar. Not from the –

Darkness. Whistle. Strike. You’re screaming now. You can hear the sound and feel the hoarseness in your throat but you’ve perfected the art of not being there. They won’t kill you. They won’t even hurt you past what’s easy to repair. You aren’t in any real danger, not like some of the others. It’s why you step in. Call attention to yourself. Antagonize them. They don’t dare hurt you that much. Not a pureblood. 

You stopped being afraid a long time ago. But you’re going to keep these scars, the ones on your wrists. You decided that the first time Filch locked the manacles around you. His spittle hit you in the eye as he laughed. As he laughed. As he -

Whistle. Fire. Silence.

Someone unhooks you and the floor is there, on your cheek. Stone. Hard. Cold. Welcoming. A foot kicks you and you curl around that new pain. Different. Different is worse. Ruptured organs are easy to heal. A shredded back is easy to heal. You’ll be fine. Just another day.

Door shuts. Cold. Stone against your face. You have to get up. Another minute and you will. Another minute. Door opens. 

Hands under your head. Glass at your mouth. Pomegranates. Stuff of life. And that’s when you start to cry. Juice running down your mouth, running out. Out of time. Out of hope. Hard to swallow. Throat raw. “Just drink it.” Perfect upper-class vowels. The kind your grandmother wishes you had. They were heroes. Defied the Dark Lord. Tortured into insanity. You’re very proud to be their son. Always wished you were that good. That good. That good. 

“For fuck’s sake, Neville, swallow before they come back.”

Swallow. The throat remembers. Potion slides down, does the work. Hand on your face, long fingers. A thumb wipes harshly at the line of water down your cheek. Skin knits back together. Throat heals. Bit by bit magic makes you whole. Limits are less when a glass of potion can fix what should take a month in hospital to make right. Magic is so wonderful. You love magic.

Your savior looks at you, white-blond hair falling across a face too pointed to ever be handsome. So eminently fuckable, though. Wouldn’t that put a stick in their gears? Take your pureblood semen, so good for making new little purebloods, and dump it all into Draco Malfoy’s arse. 

“You fixed?” he asks. He stands up, brushes his long fingers over his trousers. 

Brain stammer. Has to be, that you’re looking at Draco Malfoy and thinking you want him. When people escape death, they want to fuck. It’s a thing. Survival equals lust, so your brain latched on to the person handing you your cure. 

“As good as new,” you say. You stand up. “Shirt’s fucked, though.” It is. It’s shredded. You’re used to that. 

So’s he.

Draco Malfoy shrugs, thin shoulders moving under his own robes. Black. Hard to see in the halls at night, plus robes mean you’re in dress code and anonymous from behind. School clothes as camouflage. 

You hate the world.

Where the fuck is Harry?

“We’ll go shopping when it’s over,” Malfoy says. “Buy all the shirts in Diagon Alley.”

“Yeah,” you say. You pull at the cuffs of your shirt, yanking them down over the rings of white, of red, of scars in every stage of healing. Bracelets. Padma used to wear cascading gold bracelets. Dozens of them. They made sounds as she walked. She doesn’t wear them anymore. You all glide, ghosts in your silences.

“Sure,” you say. “When it’s over.”

It’ll never be over.

. . . . . . . . . .

“The war is over.” McGonagall’s lips pinched around the words as she fastened her glare onto first Hermione and then Draco. He felt his eyebrows slide up into a sneer so automatic it’s almost as much a reflex as breathing. That sort of expression kept the Carrows at bay. I’m better than you, it said, and they believed it so it worked. Didn’t keep him from getting punished, but it kept their touch reasonably light. His father might have been in disgrace during that year they stalked the halls of Hogwarts, looking to mete out pain, but the wheel of fortune turned, and the Dark Lord was flighty. Better safe than sorry. Better not to hurt the son of a core supporter too much, especially not the boy who’d breached the walls of Hogwarts and let the Death Eaters in.

If he looked down, he’d see blood stains on the stones of this office. Some things hadn’t come clean. Some things never would. He kept his eyes on the Headmistress and tried not to think of how the castle must want to keep these mementos of the dead. 

Hogwarts could be a difficult building when it chose.

“Mr. Malfoy, are you listening to me?”

He hadn’t been. He’d been lost, spiraling down into bodies he’d helped, bodies he hadn’t, bodies that had soaked down into the very grout and glue of the castle, never to be wholly given up. “Headmistress?” he asked as politely as he could. Tell her his mind had been wandering and she might order –

No. Not Minerva McGonagall.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Memories.” He let the word trail off and she nodded. She had her own set of war horrors inside her head, he was sure. They all did.

“I don’t think you’re being reasonable,” Hermione Granger said. He had a feeling she was saying it again. “Or fair. He attacks me and your answer is to make me spend more time with him?”

Shite. What had he missed?

“I suspect you gave as good as you got,” McGonagall said. “You’ve never been an especially shy child, Miss Granger.”

“My point,” that not very shy child – woman, really – said in a voice so shrill it grated against his ears, “is that -.”

“Or you could go home,” Minerva McGonagall said gently.

Granger stopped mid-sentence.

“You are not required to be here,” McGonagall said. “Both Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley accepted employment. You do not need to sit your N.E.W.T.s, and if you desire to do so, I would be happy to let you come back in the spring and take the exams with the rest of the returning students.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” Granger said in a small voice. She seemed, suddenly, half the size she had been. Draco glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her shoulders slouched forward, curling downward. She’d sucked her in cheeks and become a haunted thing. Even her hair had deflated. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” No one could conjure a no-nonsense British attitude like McGonagall. “You can stay with the Weasleys, or in Mr. Potter’s townhouse, or get a job and support yourself in a flat of your own. You have many, many options, but if you wish to stay here, you will abide by the rules.”

That would be a first. Draco had watched Potter with first resentment, then jealousy, then fear. And if you watched Potter, you watched Granger. Neither of them had ever shown any respect for rules. Perhaps if you were breaking rules in order to defeat a monster, you deserved to be shown a little leeway. By the time he’d slunk to the wrong side of authority, the rule-makers had all been devils and he’d been smart enough not to get caught out late, in the wrong place, talking to the wrong people. The Carrows didn’t do leeway.

“So, we are decided,” Headmistress McGonagall said into the silence. “Miss Granger, you and Mr. Malfoy will work together in the evenings to restock the infirmary’s supply of potions and, assuming the work is satisfactory, I will add a mark of commendation to your Potion N.E.W.T.s.”

Draco had never heard of such a thing. He smiled gamely, as though it mattered. No one was ever going to hire him for any job and, fortunately, he wasn’t ever going to need them to. Rich. Richer than Croesus. Richer than any hundred wizards had any right to be. Rich enough to never need to do anything quite as vulgar as get a job in order to let some miserable little flat.

Not that any landlady would let him across her mantle.

“That sounds -.”

“Bloody insane.” Granger didn’t let him finish. “Why would you trust any potion he made?”

“Or you may pack your things.”

“See you in the Potions lab, then,” Draco said when she didn’t answer. He pulled the same drawl he’d used when talking to half-bloods in front of the Carrows. Disgusted. A little amused. Ready to slap down any pretension. They’d lapped it up. It made most sane people hate him. Granger, he was pleased to note, was sane. Her eyes flashed and her jaw tensed.

“You haven’t changed,” she said. She picked up her bag and stomped to the door, getting in one more jab before she exited. “And you never will.”


	2. Chapter 2

_page 2 of a letter_

_\-- put a plaque up outside Severus Snape’s old classroom, can you believe it? We aren’t doing Potions there anymore, which is a relief. I’m not sure I could sit in that room, surrounded by all his things, and not just wonder what he was thinking. I mean, all those years. Boggles the mind. Anyway. Neville’s back, but I don’t think he’s all that pleased by the memorial. I found him there, his hand spread out over it, and he was breathing so hard I was afraid he’d pass out. I asked him if he wanted me to walk him up to the infirmary, but he said he was fine. The infirmary is out of most everything anyway. I got into a shoving match with Malfoy (also back, just my luck) and McGonagall decided for detention we have to work together to brew up replacement supplies. I can’t believe she trusts him to not spit in them or something. I’ll have to do all my work and watch him too because there is no way I’m letting him screw this up for me. M. threatened if I didn’t serve these detentions with that prat I could leave. His parents must have thrown a ton of galleons to buy his way back here after everything he did. But since no one will be buying me any internships, I’m going to get enough N.E.W.T.s to prove –_

. . . . . . . . . .

Meals are still tough. The past is the past is the past is right here next to you with its hand on your throat. You sit on the bench, worn smooth by hundreds of years of students. You have to put your back to the room. Every sound makes you stiller. Don’t move. Listen. Scrape of spoon on platter. Food going onto the plates. Feet walking by. Turn your head, casually, to see who it is.

Malfoy.

Laughter from down the table. Things are becoming normal again. Heads jerk up less. Someone risks a joke. Happiness. You pour the juice because this is what people do. They sit and they eat and they choke down beef and potatoes and you count your blessings because you aren’t measuring who’s missing. No one is missing. 

Only you are missing.

Only the dead are missing.

And the people who couldn’t bear to come back are missing.

“ – she has to serve detention with that godawful Malfoy, can you believe it?”

You look over to see who is speaking. Half-blood. Half-blood, so at risk. Half-blood, so she should keep her voice down. You don’t want to be pulling her off of a rack later because Alecto heard her. Don’t want to –

You bite your lip hard. Blood. Iron. It’s over. She can gossip. Blood status doesn’t matter now. It never mattered. It mattered so much people died.

The girl sees you looking at her, and she drops her voice. The beef smells. It’s making your stomach turn. You can still hear her. You taught yourself to hear everything. Slosh of juice. Footsteps. Bang of plates. Whispers. “It’s not like I care. I mean, it’s just _Granger_.If it weren’t for the way she latched onto Potter and Weasley, she’d be a nobody.”

“Right?” That got another laugh. Hermione had never been well liked, not by girls.

“But _Malfoy_.” Disgust in her voice. “Glad it’s not me.”

The smell of dinner is too much. You’re going to be sick. Stomach heaving. Taste of bile, burning in the back of your throat. Swallow it down. Acid. Chair shoved back, wood banging against the back of your legs. Grab your bag. Walk. Running attracts eyes. Don’t run. Walk to the door. Walk quickly. The floor under your feet. Stones. Push. Clean air. Dust. Curious portraits. You inhale.

Theodore Nott walks by. You nod. He nods. He’s as stuck here as Malfoy. No Mark on his arm, but a Death Eater parent. You always suspected, but the trial confirmed it. The Ministy stripped their sleeves at the trials, yanking them down to bare Death Eater flesh so the audience could gasp and recoil, loving the drama of it all. Nott’s father. Malfoy’s father. Malfoy. Meat, all of them, rancid meat prepared for the mases to consume. The war is over! Look at how we’ll sacrifice these men to your vengeance! The crowd roars and the stench of their bodies washes over you.

  
Washed over you.

It’s over.

Door opens.

Malfoy saunters out, pricey bag swinging from his hip. Nott must have told him you were out here. Pathetic you, sick at the smell of dinner. 

“Shitty dinner tonight,” he says. 

“Boarding school food.”

“I’ve got a bottle,” he says. “That room on the third floor?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down,” you say. As close to a yes as you can manage. Sharp cheekbones break into a smile just as hard. Just as lost. Just as knowing.

Hermione Granger appears. Late. Running. You grab her arm before she goes in to dinner. “Don’t,” you say. They aren’t her friends in there. 

“Yeah, Granger,” Malfoy says. His hard honesty is gone, replaced by a shell so fragile it begs to be shattered. “Come get pissed with us.” He sneers. He rolls his eyes. Every line of his body tells her to go away. Dares her to stay. Maybe that’s why she tightens her own frame into a wall of rage follows you both, up to a room she’s never seen.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco hadn’t expected her to follow them. He didn’t even want here there. Nott told him about Neville and one thing still lingered from the last year: you didn’t let people drown. Not anyone. Not even if they were golden boys beloved by everyone. Not even if they were heroes. 

Granger, however, could go hang. 

But she didn’t hang. She tromped up the stairs after them, face stretched into an expression that suggested she hated him just as much as he hated her. He was hateable, after all. Death Eater. Traitor. Coward. Anyone who hadn’t known before knew after his horse and pony show trial. Some of the old crew held their Marks out defiantly when the Aurors ripped their sleeves off. True believers, no matter what. He’d turned his face away when they bared his, shame burning in cheeks too pale to hide a flush. The crowd loved that. His misery was far more fun than stoicism. They jeered even more when one of them caught sight of a tear he hadn’t been able to hold back.

_Cry baby! Pissant! Hope you like crying in Azkaban_!

No Azkaban for him, though. Youth. Hope. A chance to feel good about themselves. _Let us show mercy and see what he makes of it. _So far what he’d made of it had been time served at Hogwarts, no wand, and detention with Hermione Granger. Not, perhaps, the best accounting for his sins.

Drinking with Hermione Granger. Was that a way to atone? He was going to suffer, sure enough, so it better count. Maybe she’d get drunk enough he could weasel his way into a kiss, into a hand slid over a breast. One of the punishments for his crimes turned out to be celibacy and he wasn’t a fan. And she was pretty enough. More than pretty enough.

Neville spread his hand across the wooden door of their old refuge and Draco waited. The room wouldn’t open for just anyone. It had to like you. Neville it had always liked. Him, sometimes. Ginny Weasley, oddly enough, never, though it would let her in if someone else held the door. A click, an open lock, and the door swung wide. 

“What’s this?” Granger pushed her way past them both into what had been hideout and infirmary, rest stop and sanctuary.

“It’s a room,” Draco said. “Castles have them, or so I’m told.” He flung himself down into one of the dark couches that littered the place. Dust had coated everything when they’d first found it, and, after a summer of neglect, it had begun to settle again. Elves didn’t come here. Not elves. Not professors. Not Death Eaters.

Well, except for him.

Neville found a tray of old glasses, all cadged from the Dining Hall, and sniffed at one of them before deciding to rinse it out. A little _aguamenti_ and a quick slosh and it was good enough. None of them were going to be too nice about a little grime and the fire whiskey would sterilize most anything.

Neville sat and Draco did a quick pour. A pair of shots were thrown back, and then another round. Granger was sipping at hers, face screwed up against the burn and Draco felt unreasonably annoyed with her. This wasn’t some sort of rotgut, brewed in someone’s basement. He always brought Ogden’s Finest. No one turned away a man with good booze, not in wartime. Not even if he was on the other side, or supposed to be, or believed to be. Alcohol made friends.

“You’re supposed to swallow it,” he said. “Not swish it around your mouth.”

She did, and her eyes began to water, and she tried to cover up the spate of coughing that overtook her. He laughed and filled her glass again. “Second one’s easier,” he said. “Third one’ll feel like a kiss.”

She threw back the second, her eyes never leaving his, and held the glass out for a third. He filled it, set the bottled down, and tipped his head back so it rested against the back of the couch. “You okay?” he asked. The question wasn’t for Granger, and, wonder of wonders, she seemed to know it.

Neville’s laugh was short. Clipped. It was the same sound he made every time Draco had peeled him up off the floor and poured a potion down his gullet. “I’ll be fine,” he said. The same old lie. “You?”

“Screw it, I’m rich. Who gives a fuck?”

The pair of them clinked their glasses together as Granger looked on. “What is it?” Draco asked crossly, as if he couldn’t tell by the way she screwed up her face. The way she looked from Neville to him. Her shock. Maybe she thought Neville had lost his mind somewhere over that year. She might not be far off. The Carrows broke things. They broke things and people and him and probably Neville too. Not Ginny. The fearless ginger had a spine to her, and she slid between the shadows. Darkness couldn’t touch her. But the pair of them, sitting together on an old couch? Broken into bits.

“I didn’t know you two were friends,” she said. “That’s all.”

Draco finished round two and helped himself to a third before setting the bottle at his feet. “Everyone who survived last year is friends of a sort,” he said. Friends. Brothers. Some had let it go more easily, and if they woke at night screaming, well, they walked the halls in the day without too much trouble. They took jobs and sat exams and planned weddings and screwed their brains out because they would go on. They would live. They wouldn’t think about Unforgivables, or how to do them. How you could come to _like_ them.

Sometimes he could still feel the words on his lips. _Imperio_. _Crucio. _

He suspected Neville did too.

Not Ginny Weasley. Not Luna Lovegood. Not the dozens who would make it out okay. But he did. Neville? Probably. He was too haunted to not.

Did Potter? Did Granger?

“We aren’t friends,” she said.

Neville answered that. “You weren’t here.” The words were harsh, so harsh Draco might have been afraid to say them. Trust Neville to charge in. Fear wasn’t his weakness, never had been.

“I was -.”

“Busy, yeah,” Neville said. “Malfoy was here. You weren’t. Harry wasn’t. Ron wasn’t. He was. I was.”

“He’s a Death Eater,” she said. It was the only condemnation she needed. 

Neville shrugged, dismissing that. “And you’re a Muggle-born.”

“And here we are, drinking together, one happy family,” Draco said. The fire whiskey had begun to do its magic. The edges of his rage began to dull, and the despair seeped away. It would be fine. The worst was over. “Anyone wanna fuck?”

Neville laughed. “You won’t respect me in the morning,” he said, “So I’m out.”

Draco laughed too. “Who says I respect you now?”

Granger had her lips pressed tightly together, holding in the words he could tell she was desperate to say. He wondered if she tasted like rage or contempt or both.

. . . . . . . . . .

** _from page 3 of a letter_ **

_\- remedy. I’ve never needed two doses before. Trying to drink it all away, I guess. I’m worried about Neville, but it was nice of him to warn me about the gossip. Ugh. I hate girls. I wish Ginny had come back, I’d be less lonely, but, seeing Neville, I understand why she doesn’t want to. He’s different. Really different. I think that year, while we were on the run, was a lot worse than anyone wants to talk about. But I’m so excited Harry is going to come up to see McGonagall and say hullo! I wish you could make it too but I know it’s hard to get out of work, and everyone is always willing to make allowances for him because of what he did. All my love, and I’ll see you and Ginny both when I’m home for the Christmas holiday! _

_xxxooo_

_~ Hermione_

_. . . . . . . ._

Draco shoved his tongue against his back teeth and tried to keep a neutral expression on his face. He could feel pressure building in his sinuses and his left eye had started to twitch. Dinner, never his favorite time of day, was substantially worse tonight. Harry Potter was here. He was laughing at the Gryffindor table, besieged by admirers. He played the hero people wanted him to be, his arm around Granger’s shoulders and his smile held out for everyone.

Well, not quite everyone. He never glanced over at the Slytherin table. His warm comradery wasn’t for them. Figured.

Draco had stared at the man for years, and, even if no one else noticed, he could see the bitter tension in the way he held his shoulders. Potter had never liked being the center of attention. A nicer man then Draco might have felt sympathy for his predicament. His reward for sacrificing himself and winning the war for everyone was going to be a life filled with the thing he wanted least.

Draco wasn’t that nice.  


Granger seemed delighted to have him back. When you only had two friends, you had to hold onto them with all your strength. It must be terrible for her here, surrounded by people who didn’t like her or who assumed she had been nothing but Potter’s little hanger-on. The way she was acting today was unlikely to change their opinion.  
  
“Hail the conquering hero,” Theo said. He glumly stabbed his fork into the pot pie that had been today’s dinner offering. “Should we throw roses at him?”  
  
Draco snorted. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Gryffindor table. There was Granger, more animated than he’d seen her lately. Potter, trying to look happy to be here. And Neville, whose mouth was set in a line Draco knew all too well.  
  
The sinus pain was getting worse. Draco begin to push his thumbs along the edge of his jaw, hoping to ease it somewhat.  
  
“I think he’s going to give a talk in Defense,” Theo said. He stabbed his fork into the pie again, and a tine scraped across the bottom of the plate. Draco flinched at the sound. “A little master class with the man who defeated the Dark Lord.”  
  
“Voldemort,” Draco said. Theo flinched at that. Draco didn’t blame him. After Voldemort had died, Draco forced himself to say the name over and over and over again until his mouth didn’t twist around it. Until he wasn’t afraid anymore. He wouldn’t give the man that much satisfaction. He wouldn’t allow himself to be afraid of his bloody name.  
  
“Whatever you call him,” Theo said. “You can’t deny, Potter killed him.”  
  
No matter how hard he pushed his thumb into the flesh around his jaw, this headache didn’t seem to want to go away. Draco dipped his fingers into his water and spread them along his forehead and temples. “You okay?” Theo asked.  
  
Draco kept his eyes on Neville’s mouth. He was so angry. He was angry and frustrated and hopeless and Draco clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palm. It wasn’t fair. What had Potter done? He went on a camping trip, came back, and used a child’s spell to disarm Voldemort. He’d gotten lucky. The rest of them knew far more about what it meant to endure the Dark Arts. They’d battled them day in and day out. They’d felt the slow, grinding heel of Voldemort’s boot pushing them down, and they still managed to get up every day, to go to classes, to let themselves be immersed in darkness because the alternative was to die.   
  
Neville got up, smiled at Potter with an expression so false it made Draco’s teeth ache, and excused himself. His walk out of the Dining Hall was casual and confident. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t linger.  
  
“You going to follow him?” Theo asked.

_. . . . . . . . _

“What do you know about the bloody prophecy?” you ask.

Draco shrugs. He’s lounging back, his head against the edge of the couch, a drink in his hand. You shift and your leg brushes against him. You wait for him to move away, but he leans into you, rests his head on your knee instead. Pressure. Weight. Trust. Or maybe he’s just drunk off his arse. It’s why you come here, up to this room. To get pissed. To take off the mask. Everyone else sees you as the leader. As the brave Gryffindor. You don’t know what he sees you as. Not infallible. He’s pried you off the floor too many times for that. Whatever it is, you don’t have to be fucking flawless for him. It’s a relief.

“Prophecies are bunk,” he says. It’s probably the only thing he’s ever agreed with Hermione Granger about. 

“It’s funny,” you say, which is an utter lie because funny is exactly what it’s not. “Two babies fit the parameters.” You’ve had too much to drink. Your mouth doesn’t want to form the word parameters so you say it again, more slowly. “Par. Am. Eee. Ters.”

“Two brats who could kill the Dark Lord?” Draco asks. His laugh is rough and bitter. “Who’s the other unlucky bastard?”

“Me,” you say softly.

He doesn’t respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to sulisaints, Tamra Praxidike slytherinxbadxgirl, and sm for their alpha reading skills!


	3. Chapter 3

_Page 2 of a Divination Essay_

_\- too literally. Most prophecies molder away, unremembered and unfulfilled in the Hall of Prophecy, and many more never get recorded. However, when people become aware of their own part in a prophecy deemed authentic by Ministry officials, and delivered from the lips of a known Seer, they often begin to unconsciously act in a way that makes the eventual fruition of the prediction more likely. (See: Case of Murial Selwyn and the Five Cats, included in its entirety in Appendix C, and which I will be discussing in detail later.) This can have disastrous results. The best way to avoid –_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

You hate this. You were never good at potions, and that was in a classroom with a – god, you hated him – teacher helping (looming over) you, making sure you didn’t screw it up. Telling you that you were going to screw it up. You need Hermione to hiss instructions into your ear. That’s what Snape always said. You were worthless without her help. Worthless. Not good enough.

Measure out the ingredients. Chop. Cut. The knife slips against the wood, clatters to the basin of the sink. Metal against porcelain. Shite, is that too loud? Did anyone hear? You look behind you. The door’s still shut. You’ve kept the lights dim. Most of the professors are on your side, they hate this too. But Filch. But Amycus. But Alecto.

But Snape.

God, wouldn’t he love coming in here, spotting you bent over a cauldron, stirring in seeds? The mockery. The laughter. You can see the sneer on his face. It would be like Christmas for him, come early. Your humiliation would be a present he would cherish.

Focus.

You can do this. You have to do this. Chop. Cut. Stir. Measure. It’s like cooking. Which you’re also not good at. You aren’t good at much. Barely magical, that’s what your uncle thought. Fat little loser, wasn’t that was Parkinson used to call you? You aren’t good at anything, good for nothing. You ought to just quit this bullshit before you make this goddamned potion wrong and kill whoever you give it to instead of healing them.

One of the faucets is dripping. It’s so loud. Every splat of the water into the basin rings in your ears and you hate this, you hate this, you hate this. You’re going to get caught. You’re going to end up back in those manacles, hanging, screaming.

Drip.

Chop.

The door opens.

You spin, ready to defend yourself, ready to dump it all and deny, and Malfoy stands there, framed by the door, lit by the hall behind him. Draco Malfoy. Great. His pale hair is a halo around a face in shadow. “Relax, Longbottom,” he says. He sounds amused. He lets the door drop shut behind him and now you’re in a small room with one of _them_. You can almost feel his Mark, there, under his shirt. No one knows for certain he took it, but rumors fly. You believe them. You take a step back and he saunters toward your makeshift laboratory. Chopping board, knife, cauldron, plants. It’s obvious what you’re doing. He picks up the knife, weighs it in his hand. You forgot that knives can be weapons. No one would stop him if he gutted you. No one would do more than cluck their tongue. Hell, one of the Carrows would probably ruffle his hair, tell him he’s finally shaping up, living up to his potential. You know they think he’s a bit of a disappointment. Hard to pity him for that. He’s a shitty Death Eater. You’re a shitty hero.

He’s still holding the knife. You need to think.

The leaky faucet lets out another drip. It plops down with a splat, then slides away. A girl walks by in the corridor outside, her laugh forced and fake and fraudulent and you know that means someone is watching. You should have grabbed the knife. You should run. He’s between you and the exit.

He turns and pokes at the pile of ingredients, all cadged from stores. “This one’s N.E.W.T. level,” he says. “Hardly your skill set.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” you mutter. Figures he would know what you’re making just by looking at the ingredients. He always was good at potions. One of Snape’s pets. 

He looks back at you, and his mouth twitches but he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t say anything, either. He stands there while you wait, shifting from foot to foot, tense, listening to the faucet drip and girls pass by. He finishes the potion. Finishes it faster than you could have. Bottles it in the dozen flasks you’ve brought. Cleans up with a single spell.

He pockets two of the flasks. “I’ll call this my fee,” he says.

He tosses the knife at you. It clatters down at your feet. You can’t catch. Never have been able to. You aren’t Harry Potter. You don’t grab snitches and you aren’t going to snatch a knife out of midair.

“See you around.” And then Malfoy leaves and you sink down, huddled onto the cold tile.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco watched Potter coldly, then scooped up his bag and left the room. The laughter of the Gryffindor table hit his back on the way out. They felt smug in their success, he could tell, and happy to have their conquering hero back. They won, after all, and he lost. His side lost. 

Neville hadn’t made it far. He was sitting on a bench, bent over, his head in his hands. “Come here often?” Draco asked, and sat down next to him.

Despair sat in the other man’s eyes. Despair and hunger. Draco couldn’t do anything about the former. No one at Hogwarts taught any classes on how to survive survival. There was no, ‘The Year After 101’ with a tidy syllabus on how to get past torturing your classmates and then patching them back together. No essays to write on why you shouldn’t hate the people who walked away from it with their souls intact.

Hunger, though. That he could sate.

He put a hand under Neville’s chin. Cupping would be too gentle a word. He grasped at the other man. He held on, one drowning victim clinging to another. Neville hadn’t shaved this morning, and the stubble scratched against Draco’s fingers, then against his mouth. Then he was sinking his teeth into Neville’s lower lip, and Neville had his own hand on his shoulder, fingers curled in so hard they’d leave bruises. “Third floor,” Neville said. “Not here.”

The door let them in.

. . . . . . . . . .

_letter excerpt_

_\- exhausting watching him, waiting for him to screw it up. He did it all perfectly, of course. He knows I’m watching. He sneered every time he looked at me, and I wanted to just throw all the perfect, perfect bits of worm he’d chopped right into his smug face. Remember when I slapped him when we were kids? God, it’d be great to do that again. I wish I could. But I’ll be good. I have self-control. It’s hard being here, though. I want to be here. I do. It’s just that it all feels a little pointless. Why am I writing essays on divination when all of our lives were just fucked by that stupid prophecy and I can’t even include that? Remind me to tell you about the one I did include when I’m back. It’s ridiculous. Anyway, everyone here seems fine. It’s weird. They might be downing calming draught by the gallon when I’m not looking, but everyone seems to have left it all behind them. McGonagall told me, ‘The war is over’ like I should put it in a box and move on. Maybe that works for her. I’m still just so angry. I want to scream at people and I keep breaking down into tears. Are you and Harry okay? Sometimes I feel so alone, and –_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Draco passed her the bottle and watched as Granger poured herself another shot. Her hand wasn’t as steady as it had been half an hour ago. She wasn’t spilling, and a good thing too. Pouring Ogden’s finest out over the floor should be a crime punishable by –

Well, he wasn’t sure what it should be punishable by. He wasn’t that into the idea of punishing anyone. Let people run wild. He didn’t care. He leaned up against the couch and contemplated Granger’s hair and the way she set her mouth into a hard, nervous line. He wasn’t sure why she’d joined them again. Neville had shown up with her in tow and he hadn’t asked questions, but she didn’t seem to like being here. He knew she didn’t like him.

Not that he blamed her.

Of course, he didn’t much like her either.

He leaned back against the couch. He’d lowered himself to the floor, unwilling to share furniture with her, and then she’d just sat across from him on that floor, legs folded under her, leaving Neville alone on the upholstery. After that, it had been too awkward to haul himself upward to lean against Neville the way he wanted to, so he settled for resting his head against the other man’s knee. Granger watched him slouch into Neville and took another swallow of her drink. At this rate, they’d be carrying her back to her dorm. She must be ordering hangover potion by the case.

“Are you still working in the greenhouse?” she asked Neville a little too brightly. “I didn’t see you in the Herbology N.E.W.T. group this afternoon.”

They’d all been sitting there in silence, drinking steadily, and it had finally broken her. Most people couldn’t stand to be in a group where no one was talking. It made them nervous and they’d say anything to fill the void. One of the things Draco had learned to appreciate about Neville was the quiet. They’d had to work in silence most of the time, and the habit of that lingered.

“I am,” Neville said. He pressed his fingers to the back of Draco’s neck, then began to idly play with a bit of his hair. The chill from the glass he’d been holding sent shivers down Draco’s spine. The feel of Neville twining and twisting hair he’d been meaning to cut short raised goose-pimples. They weren’t usually gentle. They didn’t do foreplay. They fucked in silence and left. This was new and the intimacy of it felt rawer than any orgasm he’d ever had. “Madam Sprout has me doing some independent research.”

“You aren’t sitting the exam?”

“I will,” Neville said. He started to trace circles on the back of Draco’s neck and Draco thought he might go mad. “The class is not -.”

“It’s beneath him,” Draco said with as much of his usual sneer as he could manage. His breathing was a little ragged and he sounded a bit off but Granger couldn’t possibly know him well enough to pick that up. And it was dark in here. He shifted a little to move closer to Neville but also so he could hide the growing bulge in his trousers.

“How did you two become friends, anyway?”

That sounded a little sourer, but still perky enough that Draco could picture Hermione Granger in some sort of etiquette for the middle classes lesson. She seemed that sort. A climber. _Ask people about themselves_, he could picture the instructors saying. _Keep the conversational ball moving._ His own mother had leaned more on the, _How dare you speak to me_ side of interpersonal relationships. Neville’s grandmother was much the same. If those old pureblood biddies deigned to ask you a question, it meant you mattered. His mother wasn’t afraid of silence.

Not that he was allowed to see her. Death Eaters were bad influences. So were their wives. If he wanted to become a good and proper little wizard, he’d have to do it without his mother.

“Draco brewed for us,” Neville said. It wasn’t a lie.

“For Dumbledore’s army?” Hermione’s imagined manners class hadn’t taught her to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Shocking, I know,” Draco said.

“It’s just,” she hesitated and the bright social climber was gone, replaced by a woman who looked so very tired. “Why didn’t you say that at the inquest?”

Draco jerked his head forward, away from Neville’s fingers, away from touch, away from comfort. He’d let Harry Potter testify for him. He hadn’t told Voldemort who Harry was, and Harry had shared that with the world. It was a small thing, it had saved him, and it was already dirty. He’d seen the articles after his trial, all speculating whether Potter had stretched the truth out of pity. What he’d done for Neville he wanted to keep for himself. He wanted it to stay clean.

He didn’t want to tell her all that, and it wasn’t as if she’d understand anyway, so all he said was, “Because it wouldn’t have mattered.”

. . . . . . . . . .

You can feel him watching you in class. Surreptitiously. Whenever you turn around, he’s bent over an essay or dutifully reading whatever polemic had been handed out that day. You’re the one who throws the books down and announces it’s all a bunch of horseshit. Draco Malfoy is far more circumspect. You’d think he was the good little Death Eater, or at least a wannabe, if it weren’t for the way he keeps showing up whenever you try to brew. If it weren’t for the way he looks haunted. If it weren’t for the way he seems to have become stupid this year.

You never _liked_ Draco Malfoy. He was a bully and a braggart and you’d always been one of his favorite targets, but as much as you’d spent more than one night shaking after a confrontation, wishing he’d disappear and never come back, you’ve never been able to deny he’s smart. N.E.W.T. level Potions, after all. And you’ve seen him whip up complicated concoctions without so much as a single furrowed brow. But now he’s stupid. He raises his hand and asks insultingly obvious questions in Muggle Studies. He doesn’t understand the answers. He asks again, and apologizes for how slow he is with a sneer and a, “It’s not like I’ve ever had a conversation with a Muggle.” The Carrows vacillate between annoyed and pleased and never seem to catch on that he’s mocking them.

He’s _mocking_ them.

It takes you a while to figure it out. You probably wouldn’t if you didn’t _know_ he was helping the underground. You catch his own Housemates giving him bemused glances that slowly, as the year grinds on, become approving. Pansy Parkinson begins to mimic him, raising her hand and simpering as she asks questions that get the Carrows off track, that distract them from tormenting the Half-bloods. Theodore Nott will slouch and scoff and then ask one, devastating question about the material that leaves the Carrows stumbling and stammering as they try to answer.

Draco Malfoy is leading a rebellion among his own cohorts.

And he’s watching you.

You can’t catch him but you can feel his eyes on the back of your neck. People know when they’re being watched. It makes the hair stand up. The brain registers a threat.

Is Draco Malfoy a threat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to itisariddle, Maitreyi Yawalkar, medievalfantasist, vitreous, and slytherinxbadxgirl for alpha reading. All remaining typos belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

_letter excerpt_

_\- XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX. Just forget about all that. I’ve crossed it out. It didn’t happen. I know you don’t want to hear me just go on and on about how hard it is to be back. No one wants to talk about what happened last year, but remember how beat up Neville was? I think that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I think it was really, really bad and it changed everyone. Most people don’t want to talk about it. They want to pretend it never happened. Maybe that’s healthy. I don’t know. I think a lot of people resent me, though, because I wasn’t here. I told a girl I wouldn’t have been allowed back anyway because I’m a Muggle-born and she kind of stared at me as if she’d forgotten about that, then she laughed really nervously. Anyway, that’s it. I’m done complaining. Tell me all about what you’re doing at the Ministry and whether that owl has –_

. . . . . . . . .

Draco shook the blood quill and tried to stretch his hand out. Alecto Carrow smiled at him with one of her poisonous smiles. “You seem to be having such trouble in Muggle Studies,” she said. “You need, perhaps, an incentive to work a bit harder.”

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Half the lines done, and he’d only been assigned 100. When he opened them again, Alecto had moved so she was standing over him. They both walked silently. It made them even more terrifying. They could sneak up on you, they could be around any corner. He’d have preferred a laughing villain. He’d have preferred someone who cackled and chortled and let you know where they were. Instead, he had these two, and the Dark Lord, who was rumored to read minds.

Not his. Never his. _You’re a natural Occlumens,_ his aunt had said, half-admiring, half-resentful.

“Ma’am?” he asked. It was better to always be polite. That’s where Longbottom got it wrong. He spit in their eyes and ended up in chains. Draco knew enough to be a toady, to flatter, to flaunt his bloodline and imply theirs were as good.

They weren’t.

Rotten little jumped-up social climbers. It’s what they were. Common, his mother would have called them. They weren’t as good as the Malfoys and never would be. Weren’t as good as the Longbottoms, for that matter.

“You aren’t writing very neatly,” Alecto said. Her mouth twitched up in a smile that made his heart sink. She looked excited and was licking her lips, and that never ended well.

She pulled a switch out of somewhere. It was a heavy one and Draco could feel the lump in his throat as he swallowed. “Ma’am?” he asked again. His voice shook this time and that made her eyes shine.

“I think five strokes across the palms will encourage you to think about writing more neatly,” she said. Her eyes glittered and she gestured at him to obey. He set the quill down as slowly as he could, trying to delay the inevitable.

She struck him.

The skin broke open and a thin line of blood appeared. Draco shuddered when she pulled her arm back again. She paused, and that was the worst. With the blood quill, he could control the pain. He might be his own torturer but this was worse.

“Thank me,” she said softly.

His eyes flew from the red welling up across his palm to stare at her in disbelief. She clucked her tongue. “Such manners,” she said. “That one won’t count since you took so long to thank me for taking the time to correct you.”

She struck again, harder. In the pause, he gasped out a, “Thank you.”

He didn’t start to cry until the fourth.

At the fifth, he thought it was over, then remembered she wasn’t going to count the first strike.

She brought all her strength to bear on the sixth, and he screamed. Then he thanked her.

She patted him on the cheek. “Start the lines again from the beginning,” she said. “This time, think about how your penmanship should reflect your status as a pureblood.”

His palm screamed in agony as he picked up the quill and it pressed into the open cuts. Every movement of his hand forced the slices open over and over again.

_I will reread my Muggle Studies assignment if I do not understand it_, he wrote.

He tried to wipe the blood from his palms onto his trousers when she wasn’t looking.

_I will reread -_

He whispered a wandless healing spell he’d learned. It helped.

_\- my Muggle Studies assignment -_

He whispered it again. And again. And again. It became a chant, repeated over and over until the words became garbled and each syllable was meaningless.

\- _if I do not understand it._

His legs trembled when he stood up, and he left a small smudge of red from his hand on the corner of the parchment. Alecto frowned when he handed it to her and rubbed a thumb over the blot. “A bit messy, don’t you think, Mr. Malfoy?”

His jaw began to tremble. What little blood he had left drained from his face, and he pressed his lips together in the terrible struggle of a man trying not to cry. It was the best response he could have had because she smiled, so pleased to have broken him, and patted him on the back on the hand. She tapped him right over the wound from the quill and it turned out his hand could hurt more. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering. “I’ll let it go tonight,” she said. “But be more careful next time.”

There was an expectant pause and Draco Malfoy said what she wanted to hear.

“Thank you.”

. . . . . . . . . .

You pass him in the hall. He’s got that look on his face people get after detention, but he’s upright so it can’t have been that bad. His hands are shoved down into his pockets, wand jutting out from his bag, and he stops you. “Longbottom.”

“What?” You aren’t sure what to expect. You’ve never talked outside the late-night brewing sessions and even then you don’t_ talk. _You brace yourself against some insult, some jab that mocks you for having trusted him.

“Remember when we were kids and you said you were worth twelve of me?”

You nod, though to be honest, you don’t. You must have been feeling pretty cheeky whatever day you said that. Malfoy had scared you stiff back in those days.

If he makes you stiff now, well, it’s not because of fear. You don’t know what it is. Some screwed up misfire of the brain, probably.

“You were right,” he says, and you see the bleakness in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before. He’s let himself down in some way. You all do, every day, every one of you. People break under torture. You make a sudden decision, probably a bad one, but to hell with it. Ginny won’t like it, but she doesn’t like much these days and it’s not as if she can get in without your help.

“There’s a room up on the third floor,” you say. “I go there sometimes.”

“Are you inviting me out?” he asks. The drawl is there, all the smug arrogance, all the things you’ve hated for so long, but he’s terrified and maybe you owe him for all the brewing he’s done. Or maybe he’ll never be able to brew enough to shove the Death Eaters back out of Hogwarts. You all pay and pay and pay for every mistake and you’re tired. You want a drink.

“Come get pissed with me,” you say. You glance down at the hands he’s being very careful not to move. “I’ve got some potions up there, too.”

“Potions I made,” he says.

“At least you know they’ll work.”

“Lead on,” he says. “My day can’t get worse.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Excerpt from a letter_

_\- send me a couple bottles of firewhiskey? I’ve been drinking with a couple of people and I’m starting to feel bad that I never bring anything to share. I keep meaning to get down to Hogsmeade, but I’m always so busy and I feel like I can never catch up. Don’t laugh, but I’ve made a schedule for everything I need to do between now and the break and as long as I only sleep six hours a day I should be fine. And we’re used to that, right? It’s not like we were getting a ton of sleep last year, or a ton of food. At least I’m not hungry this –_

. . . . . . . . . .

The way Hermione Granger watched him at every detention made Draco Malfoy want to screw it up just to mess with her. She counted every slice of worm he dropped into the cauldron. She checked his measurements. She consulted not just the textbook and not just the standard guides to healing potions but three or four periodicals she’d found back in the stacks of the library.

“I do know what I’m doing,” he said after she insisted on dumping out the salt one night and remeasuring it with her own spoon. The crazy bitch seemed to think he might be so dedicated to poisoning them all that he’d had his own set of tools made that were just off enough to cause trouble but not so much as to be noticeable.

“I don’t trust you.”

That much was obvious. He pursed his lips as she leveled off the salt with a knife and squinted at the measuring spoon as if one or two grains might have had the temerity to creep up over the edge. It was ridiculous. This potion wasn’t that sensitive and you could easily double the salt without doing any harm, or leave it out altogether. Most things were far more forgiving than school texts would lead you to believe. Not all of them. Some potions did require meticulous attention to detail. But not this one.

He reached over and knocked the spoon so all the salt fell into the cauldron. Her gape was about as delightful as he’d hoped it would be, all impotent, bewildered fury. The potion hissed exactly the way it was supposed to, and he picked up his spoon. “Three times widdershins,” he said. “Is that right?”

He knew perfectly well it was right. He could make this in his sleep, but it was fascinating to watch Granger consult all five of her references and get more obviously panicked at each one. “This one says four,” she said. “This one doesn’t have a count.”

“So which should we do?” he asked in a drawl designed to climb under her skin and irritate her. “Three or four? Or we could go wild and try five.”

Her hand shook as she picked up her own spoon. “It isn’t funny,” she said. “We can’t do it wrong.”

She was starting to cry, and he sighed and pushed her out of the way so he could begin stirring. He didn’t want to get stuck here all night because she was having some sort of meltdown. “One,” he said in the sort of perky tone dull women used when talking to their offspring. He made an exaggerated sweep with his arm as he stirred. “Two.”

“We can’t do it wrong,” she said again.

“Three.”

“Malfoy.”

“Now you put in the crushed mint,” he said. When she didn’t move, he glared at her, then he kept one hand carefully stirring the potion and stretched the other out to get the mortar and pestle so he could scrape in the next ingredient.

“We can’t –,“ she began to say again and he rounded on her.

“I’m not fucking doing it wrong!”

That was when she really began to cry and it took every ounce of control he had to keep stirring and not just fling the whole thing in her face. She didn’t have anything to cry about, the stupid bitch. She didn’t begin to know how bad things could get.

. . . . . . . . . .

You’re listening to the radio, a little more than half-pissed. Hermione begged off the drinking party for the night, claiming she had too much work to do and you suppose it’s just as well. You’re in a mood, and not a good one. The sex didn’t help. Draco’s pulled his trousers back up and poured another drink for himself, but you don’t think whiskey is the best idea for you right now, not with anger roiling along under the surface of your skin. You’re practically vibrating.

_“ – back with our guest, the Chosen One, Harry Potter, after these words from our sponsors!”_

You turn the radio off.

“Fucking to Potter’s voice,” Draco says. “Quite a kink you’ve got there.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter. You know it isn’t Harry’s fault. Harry’s good right down to his bones, like your parents. Some people are just good without even trying. Without even meaning to. And he hates it, you know that. He hates the fuss and the fame and the way people look at him differently. He’s always wanted to be just Harry.

Of course, being just yourself at school is a damn sight easier when that self is a star athlete and exactly the right amount of clever. Marks good enough people are sure you can do anything, not so good you risk being called a grind. Harry hit that perfect balance. No one called him a fool and meant it. No one looked at his fat little body and snickered. Sure, his parents were dead, but yours were near enough as to make very little difference.

It had been too fucking easy for him and now he was so adored. _So _adored. _Tell us about your year on the run_, the interviewer had said in a grotesquely sycophantish voice. _What was it like_?

You could tell them what it was like. You could tell them exactly what their sons and daughters had endured day in and day out. You could tell them what a whip felt like, and a hot iron, and how you could learn to live in five-second increments. But no one wants to hear that. That wasn’t heroic. That wasn’t a _quest_.

You pick up an empty candle holder and fling it across the room as hard as you can. It hits the wall and falls to the floor with a clatter. “Everyone fucking loves him,” you say.

Draco doesn’t ask who you mean. He just snorts. You know he doesn’t. His silent friend, Nott, doesn’t either. Plenty of people resent he wasn’t here, but to the adults, to the Ministry, to the rest of the world, Potter’s the story. Not you. You’re just the loser who had one moment of glory. You’re supposed to fade back away now. Go play in the garden.

“Did I ever tell you I got dropped out a window?” you say suddenly. Wouldn’t it have been funny if you’d been the Chosen One after all and your uncle had killed you before you could walk because you didn’t seem magical enough? No good little story then. No hero. Just darkness going on and on and on.

“What?” Draco isn’t following.

“My uncle,” you say. “Thought I was a squib.”

You turn to look at him, drink in his hand, trousers still unzipped, and he’s looking back, hint of worry appearing on his face for the first time. “You could have died,” he says. “People die when they fall out windows.”

“I think that was the point.” You’re watching his face as you say this and it’s going from worry to horror. “No one wants a squib in the family.”

“You would have _died_,” he says again, more intensely this time.

“I’m magic,” you say. Magic is so wonderful. Magic is the best thing in the world. It better be. It’s all anyone in the wizarding world cares about. Who has magic, and how much, and for how many generations. “I didn’t die. Didn’t spatter all over the rocks in the garden. I bounced.”

He’s on his knees now, one hand reaching for you, and you realize you’re crying. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and you let him pull you down, let him run a thumb over your cheeks, let him kiss you.

If you’d died, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Harry was the only one who mattered in the end. The rest of you were just bit players.

Unless you changed the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to itisariddle, Maitreyi Yawalkar, medievalfantasist, and slytherinxbadxgirl for alpha reading


	5. Chapter 5

You stand for a moment. The room around you is filled with people laughing, pulling out their books. A wand flashes and you hear the fragment of a sentence on a professor’s lips.

“… crucial to remember –.”

Crucio.

Crucio.

Crucio.

And you’re gone, feet out the door and stomach heaving. You lean up against the wall and breathe. You can breathe. A little second year passes you, her eyes knowing too much. She doesn’t ask why you’re out here.

. . . . . . . . . .

“What’s wrong with Neville?”

Their detentions had gotten better. Whatever else might be loathsome about Hermione Granger, she knew competence when she saw it. Their drinking sessions with Neville haven’t spilled over to any sort of camaraderie during the day, but she didn’t spend their brewing sessions waiting for him to sabotage the potions anymore. Draco figured he’d take it. Or had figured that, until she opened her mouth and asked about Neville. 

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” he said. He eyed the toad he was filleting and decided it was good enough. The bits he hadn’t chopped could be scraped into the bin, taken out to feed the thestrals. She had a lot of nerve asking about Neville. Asking what was wrong with him. It wasn’t the sort of question he was planning to answer until he made the mistake of looking up at her, knife held above the cutting board. She looked so concerned. So moronically, insultingly concerned that someone she and her little crew of heroes had left behind might have suffered some kind of consequences. Draco wanted to hurt her. He wanted to wipe that innocent concern off her face and replace that expression with horror. With knowledge.

Stupid bitch liked knowing things, didn’t she? He could teach her some.

He set the knife down, making sure to wipe the frog guts off the blade, then wiped his own hands. A streak of blood and innards smeared along his palm. It looked like Theo’s back had looked after their first Dark Arts class. Flayed open.

Draco cast a quick charm to clean his skin, and it was perfect again. He was perfect. Unmarred. Neptune’s oceans could go fuck themselves. He could clean his hands with a word. Turn the red ones white.

Magic was great.

The smile that bloomed across his face might be too thin. Too vindictive. He could tell it wasn’t the welcoming smile of a friend by the way Granger stepped back. “Nothing that isn’t wrong with the rest of us,” he said.

She took another step, and he bore down on her, lifting his clean, clean hands to look at his wrists. “You ever notice the scars on Longbottom’s wrists?” he asked her. The question was rhetorical, but she started to shake her head, then stopped when she really looked at his eyes. Theo had told him once his eyes got blank whenever he remembered. You look dead, he’d said. He must have been right because that look shut Granger right up. “It’s from the manacles,” he said.

“Manacles?” It wasn’t quite a stammer, but horror was starting to creep into her voice. She didn’t believe it. He knew she’d been told, but no one really believed it. It was too horrible. It had to be an exaggeration. Close your eyes, turn away, flip to the next section of the paper. It was such a downer to read about awful things.

“Argus Filch likes them,” Draco said. “He hates us, you know. Squibs do.”

“Squibs are -.”

Whatever lecture she was going to give him on how oppressed the poor squibs were was cut off when he moved into her space, and she scrambled to get back, to get away from him. He kept going, step by step until she was pressed against the stone wall and he was still there, his breath in her face. She couldn’t escape. Not this. She was going to be as stuck as they had been.

“He used to laugh when he shut them around our wrists, and he’d laugh when they beat us, and you’d hang there, your weight on your wrists, with his laughter going on and on as the whip struck.”

“Not Nev -.”

“Oh yes,” Draco said. He calmly and deliberately set one hand flat against the wall on either side of her head. “Neville. Me. A lot of us.”

Her jaw had started to tremble, and he wasn’t sure if it was from horror, or fear, or anger. He fastened his eyes on her lips and tried to make his smile crueler. They were soft, those lips. He’d known her since she was eleven and he’d never noticed how perfect her mouth was. A bow. A curve. A promise.

Draco didn’t trust promises. People promised to keep you safe, promised they’d come, promised it would be all right. He’d made them to eleven and twelve-year-olds himself, held their hair back as they shook and vomited, knowing he was lying. No one could keep anyone safe.

He made himself look away from that trembling lip to her eyes. Brown. Ordinary. Tiny specks of gold at the edges of the iris. “Neville,” he said, “has pulled his body up off the floor, drunk a healing potion, and gone back for more. He put his body between the Carrows and the people who couldn’t take it, and if you had half the brains you brag about, you’d know that changes someone.”

He wanted to slap her the way she’d slapped him when they’d been children. He wanted to grab her and find out how much a lie that lush promise of her mouth was. Instead of doing either, he leaned forward and whispered into her ear, “And if you ever suggest something is wrong with him again, I will personally see that you experience Filch’s manacles for yourself.”

He turned on one heel and walked away before he hit her. Before he kissed her. “You can clean up tonight,” he said at the doorway. She didn’t respond.

. . . . . . . . .

_Excerpt of a letter_

_\- fine. I’m making good progress on some projects and feel like I’m settling into the routine of school again. Nothing really to report. You know how school is. The same thing every day. How are –_

. . . . . . . . .

You have to go past the plaque for Severus Snape. You don’t have to. You don’t. It’s out of the way, nowhere near anywhere you’re going. Slughorn teaches Potions now, and he doesn’t like Snape’s old room. He likes light and windows and sweetened pineapple, and he’s a terrible teacher. You walk by it because you can’t believe it’s really there because it has to have been a mistake, because he was a monster.

In Memoriam, it reads, and the name is still there. It wasn’t a mistake. You didn’t imagine it. Not two weeks ago. Not yesterday. Not today. Someone really hung a plaque to honor him on the wall, hung it where people he’d taught could look at it. Maybe in a hundred years, when history renders us all dull and bloodless, students will pass this with as little care as you pass paintings of dead heroes.

Heroes are villains when you look at them from the side.

_Severus Snape. 1960-1998. Loyal unto the End._

Loyal to _whom_? You don’t believe the pretty story about how he was working for Dumbledore all along. If Voldemort had won, would he have lauded Snape as his loyal man to the end? You think he probably would. You think Snape – god, what is the phrase – played both ends against the middle. You don’t want to live in a world where Snape is a hero, and you’re forgotten.

He was just doing what he had to as a spy.

He was just maintaining his cover.

He was just mocking you for years because why bother teaching the dunce, the near squib, the nothing little fat boy when you can make fun of him instead?

You slam your hand into the wall so hard you can feel the bones break. One word and they’re healed. You’re so good at healing spells now. You don’t need a wand. You were forged by torture and pain and neglect and isn’t magic great. You always wanted to be as good as your parents. As good. As good. You are now. Isn’t that great?

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo made his mistake the first day. He’d refused to crucio a first year. “This is hardly beneficial to understanding the material,” he’d said with his perfect, aristocratic accent. A hint of condemnation hung in the vowels for anyone listening. Torturing people simply wasn’t done in Theo’s mind. They hadn’t known yet that the Carrows didn’t like being reminded they weren’t quite as posh as the Malfoys and the Notts and the Blacks. They hadn’t learned it was better to mimic the way middle-class students spoke and hide any hints of upper-class disdain. Amycus Carrow had narrowed his piggish eyes at the defiance, and Theo hadn’t seen the warning. “Perhaps you could explain your justification for the curriculum change?”

Maybe he’d thought he’d get away with it because his father was a Death Eater. Maybe he just thought it was wrong. Draco had wanted to warn him. Wanted to tell him that this was not going to go the way he expected it to. Instead, he’d looked down. He hadn’t wanted to see the look of glee come onto Professor – and wasn’t that title a joke – Carrow’s face. Amycus Carrow had been waiting for that, had _wanted_ that. It was a lesson for the entire class on what happened when you said no.

Filch laughed. Filch always laughed. 

The manacles clicked shut around Theo’s wrists, and Draco hadn’t wanted to believe it would happen. Supplies weren’t low yet, and the Carrows weren’t as emboldened as they became later so when Amycus was done he didn’t leave the body on the floor and walk away. But before Draco was allowed to walk him – drag him – to the Infirmary, he made Theo beg.

He’d hung there, thin, rabbity, and known more for his silences than anything else, his back flayed open, barely conscious. Draco had half-risen out of his seat when the order came. “Beg me,” Amycus said, “and make it pretty. Use some of those long words of yours.”

Theo’s shoulder had shaken. He wasn’t a crier. Crying, like torture, was one of those things that simply wasn’t done. But he was crying now, and he wept as he begged to be allowed to do the lesson. He did it too. Left a child screaming on the floor before Draco hooked an arm under his and led him off to the Infirmary, where Potions made everything better. His skin knit itself back together. His muscles rejoined. It had just been a whip, not a curse. It was easy to heal. As if it had never happened.

Except, for all he learned to ask complex questions that derailed the lectures, he never resisted a class lesson again.

. . . . . . . . . .

That night Draco tried to think of Neville, his hand going, handkerchief at the ready. That didn’t work. He tried to think of the magazine he had shoved under his mattress with its photo spreads of pretty witches -- and more than a handful of wizards -- in various states of undress. They beckoned. They batted their eyes at the photographer, and thus him. Turn enough pages, and he’d find wizarding photographs of the models sliding fingers in their fanny, never dropping eye contact. It had never not been enough, but it wasn’t enough. His mind kept going back to the wet promise of Hermione Granger’s mouth, to the way her jumper pulled across her chest, and then he’d think about the way she looked at him as if he had crawled out from under a rock along with an insect that had too many legs, and how if he knew what was good for him, he’d crawl right back.

What the fuck was wrong with him that he wanted to shag a woman who hated him? He should ring up Pansy. One quick floo call and he could shove his cock into someone female who might not love him. He wasn’t sure Pansy was capable of loving anyone other than her own reflection. But she liked him well enough, and they’d used sex as an escape more than once. They knew what each other liked. He should put his trousers back on and head up to Gryffindor Tower. Instead, he kept thinking about that mouth, about that mouth on him. He took experiences he’d had and shoved her face onto the memory. When he came, he felt dirty and exhausted and not nearly spent enough. He dropped the sodden handkerchief into the laundry basket, wiped his hands on a towel, and dragged himself down to the bathroom to clean himself up. He wanted a shower.

Theo was there. He watched Draco wash his hands without a word. You didn’t live together in a dormitory for years without getting a good sense for when a roommate was banging one out. No one wanted to walk in on that by accident.

Draco dried his flawless hands. There were no scars on his wrists; he’d let Madam Pomfrey magic those away. Magic was wonderful. All he had was the scar Marking him forever as evil. So wonderful. He wasn’t in Azkaban thanks to the equally flawless Harry Potter. He got to stay here, no wand except when needed for classes. He got to prove he was trustworthy. What a laugh. They’d never see him as trustworthy. Not the Ministry. Not the teachers. Not Hermione Granger. Only Neville. Only Theo. Only the Slytherins who’d drunk the Potions he’d held to their lips, and they weren’t telling, and no one would believe them if they did.

“This year sucks,” Theo said. He handed Draco a towel. “I think I’ve discovered fifteen different ways people can manage not to see me in the halls while still not running into me.”

“Only fifteen?” Draco asked.

Theo let out a huff. “I’m sure I’ve missed some,” he said. 

He leaned up against the wall and he looked so lost Draco made an impulsive decision but, hell, Neville had invited Granger to join them. “Come with me tomorrow night,” he said. “Get pissed with some other survivors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to haydensister and Maitreyi Yawalkar for beta reading! 
> 
> At one point, Draco’s thoughts reference Macbeth and twist the quote. The original that he’s playing with is:
> 
> Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood  
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather  
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,  
Making the green one red.


	6. Chapter 6

You weren’t expecting Draco to show up with Nott. He crosses his arms and eyes you, all slouched privilege, and you remember him running through his curses, disdain in every syllable. He’d done them though, and you think about refusing to let him in, but Hermione and Draco are already eyeing one another with barely concealed hatred, and you figure if Draco is willing to tolerate your friends, you should tolerate his.

“Longbottom,” Nott says as he brushes past you, and you catch a whiff of sweat and with it something sweeter. Muskier. The bastard is wearing cologne. Your brain immediately starts breaking it down into component parts. It’s why you’re such a brilliant herbologist. You know plants. You know them by feel. You know them by smell.

Bergamot. Looks like a lime. Treats depression. Smells… good. You hate that Earl Grey tea crap, but on Nott, it smells strangely good. Fennel. Smells like licorice, which most people hate but which you like. Treats wounds. Also good for boosting male performance. Your eyes drop unbidden to Theodore Nott’s crotch, but he’s already in the room, helping himself to some of Draco’s whiskey, so all you see is his arse.

Which isn’t bad.

The room’s pretty dark, though. Only one lantern and you decide to blame that thought on wishful thinking and shadows.

“Lucky us,” Hermione mutters. She’s eying him too, with arms crossed and jaw set. At least you aren’t alone in your resentment someone else is here, breaking into your space, taking up room in your haven. “Now we have a fourth for bridge.”

“What?”

“Muggle card game,” she says, and you feel a flush starting at your neck and creeping up around your ears. You don’t know anything about her world. Sometimes that bothers you. The blush is still there when you sit down on the worn sofa and let Draco put a glass in your hand. The first swallow burns but you want the false confidence alcohol brings. You want to get it fast.

“Cozy hideaway,” Nott says. He drags his eyes over Draco, and you know he knows that the two of you are fucking. That shouldn’t feel like a big deal, but it does. You take another swallow.

“The good guys needed a place to go last year,” Hermione says. She sips at her own drink far more daintily than usual, and you realize she’s nervous. “I wasn’t here, of course, but weren’t you included, Nott?”

He smiles, seemingly far less bothered by her taunt that you would be. Some people are like that. Suave no matter what anyone says. Your grandmother is like that. She says your father was. You aren’t, of course. One of the many ways you’re a failure.

Nott is talking.

“I was not,” he says. “Unlike Longbottom, I am not of the heroic persuasion. One interlude with the whips and chains and poof.” He waves his hand in the air in a parody of wand motion. “My courage disappeared.”

She glances at Draco, the doubt on her face so very clear. He smirks at her. “Are you waiting for me to explain why I had access?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. The words are bald and plain and simple. She couldn’t make it any plainer that when she looks at him what she sees is the Death Eater. Just that. Nothing more. You don’t blame her. It’s hard to believe he’s more. It’s hard for you, and you saw it, day in and day out.

Draco leans forward, blond hair falling over his face. “Because I spent my free time brewing potions for your side, Granger. Try to remember the things we tell you.”

She flushes. Even in the dim room, you can see it.

“What did you do?” Draco asks. “While you were away, I mean.” It’s the tone the elite use to let you know you aren’t one of them, you’ll never be one of them. It’s the tone he used all last year with the Carrows.

You hate the way he drips contempt all over things when he’s afraid.

Hermione doesn’t retreat. If anything, his tone makes her lean into the fight. “I saved your ass,” she says.

“But did you suffer?”

“Your aunt tortured me. Does that count?” It’s a gauntlet thrown down, and when no one reacts, she adds more to the list. “I nearly starved, we almost froze to death, we were always running, and I had to wear a Horcrux around my neck. Is that enough?”

He shrugs, though you can tell he’s a little shaken. He doesn’t like to remember his family was balls deep in the evil. He doesn’t like to remember he thought it was a grand adventure, that he thought he was just as chosen for great things as Potter until it became painfully clear he was not and it was not.

Painfully being the key word.

“We were all tortured, Granger,” Theo says. She thrusts her jaw out and glares at him, but it’s true. No one’s impressed anymore by a little Crucio. “Pass me the whiskey Draco, and Longbottom, be a good host and come up with another topic of conversation.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Defense Against the Dark Arts essay fragment_

_…. of exposure to the Cruciatus Curse remain unclear. Documented survivors demonstrate effects ranging from near catatonia to no discernable impact on their physical well-being. Emotional well-being is, of course, significantly harder to measure and, until the Second Wizarding War, researchers did not have access to a large enough data sample from which to draw conclusions. Recent attempts to document the emotional well-being of cruciatus survivors by Ministry officials have resulted in widespread non-compliance, including one former Hogwarts student who told the Mediwitch interviewing her that she should, “Take your quill and…_

. . . . . . . . . .

“It’s fucking wrong,” Theo said. He eyed his whiskey glass with what looked like disapproval. The thing had the audacity to be empty. Draco reached over and filled it and got one of Theo’s lopsided smiles in return.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

Theo pointed at her and Draco could see her tensing up, waiting to be told her very existence was a mistake. It occurred to him for the first time that, on some level, she must trust them. She was a woman alone, drinking with three men, two of whom she has no reason to believe wished her well. Maybe she thought she could take him down. He didn’t have a wand, so she wasn’t wholly off base there. Theo did, though, and he was no slouch.

It was weird, being trusted. Uncomfortable. Even being trusted to be a baseline decent person and not attack a classmate felt new. Draco didn’t think he’d have shut himself away in a room with three of her mates. That would have been asking to be pummeled at the very least.

“What?” Hermione asked again.

“That those morons thought they were better than you,” Theo said. She settled down and swallowed more whiskey, appeased, and, as far as Draco could tell, oblivious to what a radical statement that was coming from the son of a Death Eater. Not that he was wrong. The Carrows had been human garbage, and he hoped they rotted forever, but he and Theo and the whole lot of them had been raised to think Muggle-borns were unwelcome freaks. Filth. “Do something,” Theo said, wiggling his fingers at her. “Magic something up.”

Granger looked perplexed, then shrugged, pulled her wand, and murmured something Draco couldn’t quite make out. A loud boom echoed around the room, and smoke poured from her wand. When it cleared, he could see tiny yellow birds flying from the tip. They circled around the room, then settled along the window-ledge, chirping forlornly. Theo laughed with delight and fished a half-eaten bit of biscuit out of one pocket and pushed crumbs along the floor toward the birds. One of them eyed him, hopped down and came closer, then eyed him again.

“I don’t think that bird trusts you,” Neville said. It was a bit aloof for him, and Draco looked over, surprised. Neville had his arms crossed, and a scowl on his face.

“Do you blame it?” Granger asked.

A few more hops and the bird grabbed a crumb and flew back to the window, triumphant in its daring. “Just wait,” Theo said. He set out another few bits of broken biscuit, and Draco wondered exactly how many he’d been stealing from meals, but bit by bit Theo lured the first bird back, and then a second. In under ten minutes, he had the entire flock eating, a few of them out of his hand. One chirped furiously when he turned his pockets out to show there wasn’t any more left.

Neville’s scowl slowly left his face, and raw wonder took its place. “Magic,” he said, the word almost reverent.

“Animals like me,” Theo said. He cocked his brows and looked over at Neville. “People tend not to.”

“I wonder why,” Hermione muttered.

“I’m quiet, smarter than them, and don’t care whether they like me or not,” Theo said. His eyes were still on Neville. “People resent it when you don’t crave their approval. Plus, there’s the gay thing.”

No one could ever fault Theo for lack of self-awareness. Draco lay back and stared up into the dark ceiling. The birds were slowly fading. Animals conjured from thin air didn’t tend to last. He’d summoned snakes before, though not in years. The time spent with Voldemort had soured him on the creatures, and, anyway, it made him sad. The birds wanted things. They could be tempted with food. They developed trust. And then they disappeared, back into the nothing from which they’d come.

“I wonder what it’s like to be a bird,” he said, but none of them answered.

. . . . . . . . . .

One of the things that just bothers you – and you know it’s not fair, but since when does fair or right have anything to do with feelings? – is that none of it mattered. You suffered, and you defied authority, and you led a resistance, and in the end, not a single part of any of that mattered. You could have smiled and nodded and played along, and everything would have ended up exactly the same. Harry would have come back and slain the monster, and everyone would have applauded him, and maybe you’d have fewer scars.

You look down at the rings of scar tissue around your wrists. White and thick and ugly. It’s proof you did something. Proof you suffered. Proof you were good.

You’re a fucking fool.

None of it mattered.

Being good doesn’t matter at all.

. . . . . . . . . .

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Neville said. He ran his fingers over the pomegranate seeds, looking for tiny bits of pith still clinging on. Draco grunted and swirled the contents of the cauldron. Counterclockwise seven times. Then seven more.

“What is,” he said when he’d stopped counting.

“Who’s the hero,” Neville said. He pulled the next seed out and methodically checked it for imperfections. “Who’s the villain.”

Draco was pretty sure Voldemort was the villain, but this was probably about Snape anyway. He can’t blame Neville for going back to that man again and again. Snape had always been decent to him, but he’d gone after Neville. It had to have felt right and fitting when he turned out to be a Death Eater. Of course, he was the bad guy. He’d been a right bastard, and you could always tell the good from the bad because good people were nice and bad people were mean.

Then Snape went and fucked up that neat black and white dichotomy up by being a good and righteous asshole.

“You saying Potter wasn’t the hero?” Draco asked. “Because the bit where he died and came back to life looked pretty story-book hero to me.”

“I’m saying we weren’t.”

“Well, we weren’t the fucking villains.” Draco could hardly believe he was having this conversation with Neville Longbottom. Neville, who stood up to the darkness time and time again. Neville, who walked through hell and came out with maybe a little soot on his face but unscarred.

“Maybe I was a villain,” Dracon conceded, “but not you.” His eyes fell on Neville’s wrists.

Scarred was all a matter of degree. A matter of – what had Neville called it? - perspective.

“Just hand me the damn seeds so I can make another batch,” Draco said.

. . . . . . . . . .

_fragment of a letter _

_… I’m just wondering what it was all for. I mean, Voldemort is gone, and everything is good and yay and all that tripe, but it seems like nothing has changed. Do you ever feel like it was all a bit of a waste? All that traipsing around? People aren’t any better now than they were before, and, of course, it’s important that Voldemort is gone. He was evil. And, on a more practical level, he wanted to kill me. And Harry. And you, too. All his followers did. But it still seems like after everyone went through all that, people should be better. They should be kinder. They should think about things, but all anyone wants to do is go on, no whinging now, just put it all behind you. And we shouldn’t put it all behind us. We should be asking why it happened, and what it means, and how do we keep it from happening again. Would the Ministry even notice if another Dark Lord decided to rise up? I mean, there were two of them in one century, and both times they managed to amass a huge number of followers, and the Ministry just sat around twiddling its thumbs. I’m so glad you and Harry are training to be Aurors because I know you’d never let that happen. I can trust you. I don’t think I trust many people here at Hogwarts. They aren’t bad, but if it happened again, they’d just look the other way and pretend it wasn’t. Or they’d tell themselves someone else would handle it. Not me. Not Neville. Not a couple of other people. But so many. Anyway, enough about this. I know you don’t really care. And I’m really thrilled about Ginny and Harry. He, of course, didn’t write me, but you know how he is. Three words and then an excuse about how the owl is going to leave, and he can’t write more. Tell him if he wants another proper letter, he has to write back the way you do. And tell Ginny…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Megan and Sulisaints for betareading!


	7. Chapter 7

Draco thought he heard her wrong at first, that he’d somehow taken the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board as words because the idea that Hermione Granger would be saying anything like what came out of her mouth – and to him of all people – seemed impossible.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
She clenched her jaw, squaring it up like some pugilist in a bad painting, and Draco waited for her to tell him it wasn’t anything, to ask what he was talking about. Instead, she said, or maybe muttered would be a better description of how she forced out the words. “I’m sorry.”  
  
He cocked his head to the side. “For what?”  
  
He could think of a hundred things the wretched bitch should be sorry for. She should be sorry for pushing him, for assuming he would ruin the potions on purpose, for thinking he wasn’t good at this when he was better than she was, the rule-abiding, directions following grind that she was.   
  
She should be sorry she left them here.  
  
“I didn’t.” She paused and took a deep breath, then spit the words out as quickly as she could, so quickly they jumbled together into a mixed up stew of regret, and Draco had to pick them out and put them back in order. “I didn’t think, we didn’t, it wasn’t, it was bad, you understand, but I assumed, we didn’t know how bad it was, that you, Neville and you and everyone, you all, I’m sorry, I didn’t think of what you endured, and I made assumptions.”  
  
A slow and steady smile bloomed across Draco’s face. He could feel it stretching his mouth up into a position that had become unfamiliar. “Say it again.”  
  
It was her turn to ask, “What?”  
  
“I want to engrave this moment in time,” he said. “I want to picture you begging my pardon every night as I go to sleep. I want to wank off to it. Do it again.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
So much for their brief interlude of civility, not that he’d contributed anything to it. Draco turned and kept working on the potion at hand. It was a bone-setting brew tonight. Easy enough to make, not the sort of thing that required intense focus or concentration, so he was able to replay the sound of Hermione Granger stammering out her awkward apology. He chopped and diced and stirred and kept coming back to one thing. She was ugly when she admitted she was wrong. Her face screwed up, and that bold confidence disappeared. She looked afraid, and he’d seen enough fear to hate that. He’d seen her afraid. He didn't like it.  
  
“I’m sorry about my aunt,” he said.  
  
Her knife stopped, and when he looked over at her her face had gone still. Her eyes were dead. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. The words were automatic. Rehearsed. He wondered how many people had apologized to her for that. Not his aunt, of course. She was dead and good riddance. Not his parents either. His mother, much as he loved her, much as he would do anything for her, wouldn’t think to apologize to someone like Hermione Granger. The Weasleys, probably, or Saint Potter.  
  
“I’d hold her down and let you retaliate, but she’s dead so it wouldn’t matter to her much.” He slid the chopped worms into a measuring cup and eyed the proportions. He needed a little more. “I could dig her up, though, if you really thought throwing a crucio or two her way would make you feel better.”  
  
“That’s disgusting,” she said. The words were still dull. She was a schoolgirl reciting the words she’d been taught to say, and she hadn’t started working again.   
  
“Grave-robbing’s not quite the thing,” he agreed. Two more worms and he had enough. He slid them into the cauldron and began to stir. When it thickened up and turned a pearly white, it was time to decant it into the vials, bone hardening potion done. Or it would be done after it sat a week. When she stayed silent, he added, “Or did you mean the crucio.”  
  
“Both.” She began to gather the dishes and wash them, scouring with magic and then rinsing them with water at the sink.  
  
“You get used to it,” he said softly. He didn’t mean the grave-robbing, and when she turned to look over at him, her eyes still so blank he knew she was lost in the past, lost in the pain where everything became fire and you pissed yourself and when you came to the world was dust and ashes in your mouth, the rank scent of urine in your nose. It was impossible to be dignified when crucio burned through your nerves. Impossible not to scrabble away. Impossible not to beg for it to stop.   
  
Impossible not to learn to feel the taste of it on your own tongue.  
  
“It’s wrong,” she said.  
  
He let out a braying laugh. That was one thing she’d gotten to keep. Her sense that anything was right or wrong. Voldemort had been right about that. It was one of the tiresome things he said over and over again, like a skipping record. Reanimation hadn’t done his brain any favors. “There is no right or wrong,” Draco echoed. “Only power.” He shook himself. Voldemort had been crazy, and Granger was more than right. Some curses were called ‘unforgivable’ for a reason.  
  
He’d licked the bottom of Amycus Carrow’s shoe once. “I’ll show you children how you can take even the proudest and make him beg,” the man had said.  
  
Draco knew as soon as he heard those words it would be him. His father must be on the outs again. When the Malfoys were in favor, they went after easier targets. When the power shifted, they turned their attention back to him. He’d risen, walked to the center of the classroom, and smirked. Might as well give a show. We who are about to die, salute you. We who are about to grovel, mock you.  
  
Fire. Fire along his skin, fire along his bones, fire through his blood. He’d meant it. Oh, god, how Amycus had meant it that day. Draco understood, as his knees buckled, as he fell, as his head hit the stone floor, how Neville’s parents had gone mad. They’d tried to fight this. They’d been brave and good and everything he wasn’t because he just rode the pain. He clung to the life raft of laughter, and when Amycus had settled down in a chair, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, he began to cry.  
  
“Now that I’ve gotten him warmed up,” he said, “let’s talk about how this curse can be used to motivate your subject to do anything you want.”  
  
Pansy had stuck her hand up. “Like tell you where the Muggles are?” she asked. She was trying to divert the lesson, trying to give him a break.   
  
“Yes,” Amycus had said. “But I doubt our boy Malfoy here has ever spoken to a bit of filth like that, has he?”  
  
Draco shook his head, desperate now to please.  
  
The foot kicked him in his face, and another bout of pain sent him to retching. “But we can be a bit more creative, just to demonstrate.” The shoe smelled terrible. Badly washed socks, unwashed feet, old leather. and something foul and decaying. When he’d been told to lick it clean, he hadn’t even hesitated. He’d have done anything to make it stop. Anything to get the pain to end.  
  
Everyone broke.  
  
Except Neville’s parents.  
  
Except Hermione Granger, who was washing his dirty dishes with dead eyes.  
  
“I accept your apology,” Draco said. His voice was shaking. He could still feel the curse. Could still taste the shoe. He counted to ten, kept stirring, then said, as levelly as he could, “Do you think you could finish this? I seem to be feeling a bit ill.”  
  
He made it to the hallway before he wanted to scream. Pulled at his mouth with curled, clawed hands to keep the sound inside and wept and wept and wept as he huddled against the wall. “Crucio,” he said to the uncaring stone. “Crucio.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
_excerpt from a letter  
  
… really wrong with Draco Malfoy. I sound like Harry, don’t I? But I don’t think he’s up to something. I think he’s falling apart. One more hit and he’s going to shatter. I know how that feels. Some days I want to…_  
  
. . . . . . . . .   
  
Theodore Nott starts appearing in the greenhouse when you’re working. You don’t have herbology class. Not exactly. You’re ‘pursuing independent research’, according to Madam Sprout, and ‘wasting your time’ according to your grandmother. She has ambitions for you now that you aren’t a near-squib embarrassment. You’ll marry a nice witch, and have nice, magical babies, and go for a career in politics. Or you will as soon as you start to stand up straight and clean under your nails and shine your shoes.  
  
She’d like Draco quite a lot if he weren’t so penis-y. He has perfect posture and his shoes never fail to gleam.  
  
Yours do not gleam.  
  
And your nails are filled with soil because you only feel at peace when you’re here, with the plants, alone.  
  
Except you aren’t alone because Theodore Nott seems to have decided that the white iron table at one end of the greenhouse, the table where Madam Sprout sometimes takes tea, is an excellent place to study. It’s not that he’s wrong. The greenhouse has always been your favorite spot on campus. Warm even in winter. Smelling of dirt and life and rot.   
  
“What do you want?” you ask the third time he’s there. Three of anything is a fairy tale number. It’s bad. Or good. It’s when thing change, and it’s when you’re tired of avoiding asking.  
  
“You,” he says. It’s so blunt. So utterly lacking in romance or subtlety or even flirtation you sit down on the opposite chair and stare at him, mouth actually agape. He looks amused.  
  
When you find words, what you say is, “I’m seeing Draco.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re fucking Draco. And he’s basically straight, so there’s an expiration date to that little fling.”  
  
He stands up, smelling of licorice. “Are you always like this?” you ask.  
  
“Find out?” It’s an invitation, and you’re left speechless again as he gathers his things and leaves you in a greenhouse that suddenly feels empty.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
It’s a matter of some historical interest that, of her three wishes, Neville’s grandmother was destined to have one come true.   
  
Probably not the one she would have picked, but that’s why you should be careful when making wishes. They come true on the slant.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“The problem,” Hermione said – and Draco took a moment in his head between swallows of the whiskey she’d brought to wonder when, exactly, his brain had decided she was Hermione and not Granger – “is that there’s going to be another one.”  
  
“Another one what?” Theo asked. He was sprawled on the couch, knees spread and one arm thrown over the back. He couldn’t have taken up more room if he’d tried, and Draco had been effectively relegated to one of the beat-up leather chairs.   
  
“Another dark lord,” Hermione said. She leaned forward from where she sat, feet curled under her on the floor, and as poorly as he knew her, Draco could tell she had an argument to make. She’d probably been rehearsing it in her head for days. “First there was Grindelwald,” she said. “Then Voldemort. There’s going to be another.”  
  
“One was enough,” Neville said. He seemed to be ignoring the way Theo had commandeered two-thirds of the couch in favor of Hermione’s discussion point. At least she hadn’t brought notes, though Draco would have bet she had a neat outline in her head explaining her reasoning.   
  
“Two,” she said. “And no one ever wants to talk about it. I’ve been all through the old copies of _The Daily Prophet_, and as soon as Grindelwald was defeated, he pretty much ceased to exist.”  
  
“Well, he wasn’t exactly news anymore,” Theo said.  
  
“But he should have been.” She actually held up a finger as she said, “One,” and Draco had to smother his laugh with a cough. She flicked a displeased glance at him, but didn’t allow herself to be stopped. “He based his whole appeal around how wizards were better than Muggles, and, two -.”  
  
She held up a second finger and Draco’s coughing fit became so bad Theo mouthed, “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” he muttered with a wave of his hand. “Go on, tell us your second point.”  
  
“Two,” she said again, “Voldemort based his appeal on the inherent value of power.”  
  
“Yeah.” Theo drawled the word out. “Not following you here.”  
  
“Both of them used bias against the non-magical as the basis for their appeal,” she said. “It’s a prejudice that goes incredibly deeply in the wizarding world. If you aren’t magical, you’re worth nothing. Look at squibs -.”  
  
“Do we have to?” Theo asked.  
  
“See,” she said triumphantly. “You don’t even want to talk about squibs.”  
  
“They’re handicapped,” Neville said. His smile was so sharp, so bitter. “Better a dead child than a squib.”  
  
“And three.” Draco was expecting the third finger so this time he kept control and merely looked interested. “No one wants to talk about this prejudice that just permeates your society.”  
  
“Yours too,” Draco says. “This is your world too.” She looked at him. Was it amusing or awful that he’d managed to shock her with that? He shrugged, and she swallowed so hard he could see her throat bob.   
  
“It is true,” Theo said slowly. “We aren’t supposed to talk about last year.”  
  
Hermione nodded, clearly happy to have dragged at least one of them into agreeing with her. “Professor McGonagall –”  
  
“Headmistress,” Neville said.  
  
“ – wants us to just let it go. The war was last year. It’s time to focus on exams and the future, but unless we do something, the future is just going to be another war. Another dark lord who comes up because no one wants to talk about anything that matters.”  
  
“So, what do we do?” Draco couldn’t argue with her basic premise. He knew he was drunk. He came up here to get drunk, and to sit with the three people who didn’t seem to want to pretend everything was fine. For just a few hours it was a relief to be able to say the world was shitty without anyone telling him it would be fine, or that it was over, or worst of all, would he like to talk to someone. He didn’t want to talk to some head healer, who’d take notes in a little book and ask him how he felt about that and did he plan to hurt himself or anyone else.  
  
God, if he told someone he could still feel the way casting crucio felt, if he told them sometimes he missed those moments when everything was so simple, they’d lock him up. Some things you could never tell anyone who hadn’t been there. No one wanted to hear it was easier when all you had to do was beg. Easier when all you had to do was hurt someone.   
  
Hermione Granger’s eyes shone with the gleam of every fanatic ever. “We fix things,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Megan and Sulisaints for betareading!


	8. Chapter 8

The funniest thing about Hermione saying, “We fix things” is how shocked Draco and Nott look. Maybe down in the bowels of the castle, they hadn’t ever gotten a sense of how she latches onto things and won’t let go. You met her when she turned the expected social order of your world upside down and walked fearlessly through the Hogwarts Express looking for your toad. You’d known right then and there that she was like your parents. Bold. Good.

Maybe the Slytherins only saw her as Harry’s bushy-haired sidekick. Half of Gryffindor saw her that way, so it wasn’t surprising. She didn’t have a knack for making friends. Too clever. Too impatient. Too quick to dismiss anything that she didn’t understand as unimportant. But she also saw things no one else did. You’d never questioned whether elves liked being servants until she marched around, handing out buttons and badly knit hats, demanding people listen to her talk about how they were _taking advantage_ and _it wasn’t right_. 

You trust Hermione Granger’s judgment. She might be grating and determined and not especially nuanced in the way she looks at things, but she knows what’s right.

“You say that like it would be easy,” Nott says. His foot brushes against yours, and for the first time tonight you don’t think it’s because he’s trying to get into your boundaries. He’s leaning forward, eyes focusing on Hermione. He’s interested. You can tell.

Draco is rolling his eyes. “Yes, Granger,” he says, “let’s just magically fix all of society just on your say so.”

“It’s not about _me,” _she says. “It’s about no one… we had to fight a _monster. _You had to go to school with _monsters_. Not bad teachers or lousy politicians, but people who liked.” She stops talking, maybe afraid to say it. You can’t blame her. It still feels unreal. Despite the nightmares, despite the times you start shaking and can’t stop, you can’t quite believe it happened. Surely you must be remembering wrong, taking all the fear you felt and recreating memories that justify being that afraid, that crippled, that worthless.

Because no one would really beat students.

No one would chain students up and whip them.

You look down at your wrists. The scars sit there, proof that some people did like hurting children. 

“I hate Filch,” you say. He’s still here. It wasn’t a crime to help lawfully appointed teachers. It wasn’t a crime not to resist them. He cleaned and polished and scrubbed before they came, and he does it now. No Azkaban for him, no matter how many people he helped torture. It was just discipline. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Everyone’s fine.

The Hermione of two years ago would have defended Argus Filch. This woman looks down at her hands and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, she says, “Some days I think I hate everybody.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_fragment of comment on a History of Magic essay_

… _and while the parallels you draw between Grindelwald and Voldemort’s rise and well-argued and persuasive, your attempt to link that to inherent flaws in the social fabric of wizarding Europe is more of a stretch. Try to keep in mind, Miss Granger, that because of your own upbringing, you see much of the wizarding world from an outsider’s perspective and may miss cultural nuances. It is a problem that impacts sociological research even in the Muggle world, and I invite you to look over the work of…_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Draco shoved his own essay back into his bag. He didn’t care what grades he got. Hadn’t cared what courses he signed up for. He was here because here was better than Azkaban. He was here because he didn’t have a choice. He was here because at least in History of Magic he didn’t have to politely wait to be handed his own wand to do the day’s assignment. At least here he didn’t have to politely hand it back at the end of the lesson.

Hermione, two seats over, violently crumpled her parchment into a ball.

. . . . . . . . .

You see Filch in the hall. He catches your eye and cackles as you walk by, taking his hands off the mop handle long enough to mimic hanging you in chains. 

You look away and walk faster.

You can hear his laughter even after you turn the corner.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Didn’t get the grade you wanted?” Draco took a few quick steps so he could catch up to Hermione and then fell into step at her side. She hunched her shoulders but didn’t tell him to bugger off, which was almost welcoming compared to some of his peers. People wanted to forget all the things they’d said. They wanted to forget what they’d done. The boy with the Mark on his arm made that hard.

Scars lasted.

“I’m not wrong,” she said.

Definitely not the grade she’d wanted. “Didn’t say you were,” he said. 

She stopped and turned. Three students behind them had to swerve to avoid running into them, and one of them muttered, “Crazy bitch” as he passed. Hermione’s eyes followed him and the red and gold tie dangling from his hand. In Slytherin, if she let that go, she’d be the target of one jab after another until she either spent all her time hiding or fought back. Maybe Gryffindor was a little less brutal.

Or maybe not. She whispered a charm and twitched the wand he hadn’t even seen her pull. Her housemate stumbled, and all his books went spilling out onto the floor. 

“A children’s spell,” Draco said. At her dirty look, he lifted his hands. “Not that those don’t work.” 

“Everything works,” she said. “Except, apparently, the need to think.”

That didn’t quite make sense, but he decided not to push it. “Drinking tonight?” he asked. He knew Neville couldn’t come. One of his plants was in some stage of germination that required very precise temperatures. He’d explained it in some detail, and Draco had listened, but the truth was he could barely follow the ins and outs of Neville’s herbology projects. He felt bad about it, but he didn’t even really like the greenhouse. It was always too hot, and the glass walls made him feel too exposed. Anyone could see in from any direction. Escape wasn’t possible. 

“I guess,” Hermione said. She twisted her mouth and Draco had to tear his eyes away from those lips. How had he never noticed those lips in all the years they’d been stuck in classes together?

“I’ll listen to you talk about your grade,” he offered. He knew it was idiotic. The pair of them hated one another or, maybe disliked one another, but he knew she wouldn’t pretend all that shit hadn’t happened. Sometimes shared experiences mattered more than whether you got on. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Careful,” she said sourly. “I might be blown away by your chivalry.”

“Or I could insult you.” He held up one hand and started to tick things off on his fingers. “Bushy hair. Muggle background. Potter’s suck up. Teacher’s pet. Do you have a preference?”

“You’re such an asshole,” she muttered. He thought that had to be a no until she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and added, “I got a new bottle of 12-year and drinking alone is depressing, so yes.”

. . . . . . . . . .

You love and hate this part of herbology. The temperature of the soil has to be exact. You’ve soaked the seeds for exactly the right amount of time. Now they have to be planted during the appropriate astronomical configuration. These are rare and hard to grow, and even Madam Sprout seemed to think you couldn’t do it, but you can and you will.

You coax the little pods out of their bath with one finger and transport them to their pots as quickly as possible before they can get chilled even in this heated air. 

You are almost aware of Theodore Nott coming in. The door opens and closes. His shoes clack against the brick floor of the greenhouse, and his books rustle as he sits down. 

Time passes. 

You plant seed after seed.

Finger into the dirt. Scoop up another. Smell of soil. Smell of rot. Smell of life. Life comes from dirt. Life rots back to dirt. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

It’s soothing.

When you’re planting, you aren’t afraid. You’re present. You’re here, and nothing else matters. There aren’t any memories of

(Filch laughing)

You realize as you’re standing there, hands covered in dirt after burying the last one, that Nott hadn’t made a sound. Not even the whistling flip of a page turning. You turn, and he’s watching you, book out and open, but his eyes following your every move. “That’s creepy,” you say without thinking. But who comes and watches someone plant rare seeds in the moonlight. 

“Stalkerish, even,” he says. He closes the book, setting aside any pretense he’s reading. 

“What am I going to do with you, Nott?” you ask.

His head tilts to the side. “Keep me?”

. . . . . . . . .

Draco wasn’t sure the door would even open for him. It didn’t always work for him, or hadn’t, and if it picked tonight to be contrary, that would be pretty damn humiliating. _Hey, Granger, come have a drink with me. Oh, sorry, can’t get the door open. Whoops._

But it opened.

It opened, and there they were, in a dark room. No Neville to act as a go-between. No Theo. Draco flopped down on the couch and sneered at her. “You planning to stand in the doorway all night, Granger? Afraid?”

She shut the door with a bit too much vigor, and he knew he’d gotten under her skin. That gave him a comfortable thrill of malicious pleasure, so he went for another jab. “So, this 12-year-whiskey you’ve promised. Is it Ogden’s or something your indigent friends the Weasley’s brew up in their garage?”

She set the bottle down on the floor with a solid thump and accioed over a pair of glasses. He admired the way she added an extra flourish with her wand. Better make sure he saw she had that pretty little stick in her hand. It was a subtle, but it was there. _You don’t have a wand anymore, do you Malfoy?_

He inhaled through his nose, lifted his hand, and whispered, “Accio glass,” under his breath. This one he’d never tried without a wand. It was just so much easier to get up and fetch something these days. But he’d learned to do harder things without a wand the year before. It was just a focusing tool. A prism. The magic still came from him.

The _light_ still came from him.

It took so long Hermione’s mouth had begun to turn up in a smug, pleased smile that he couldn’t do the simplest spell anymore. That sparked something in him. Rage, maybe. Hatred. He pushed all that will, all that _need_ at the glass, and it lifted off the floor with a wobble and floated slowly to his hand. He took a sip. The liquor burned. The second sip was better. The third the kiss he wanted.

He looked at Hermione. 

She looked impressed. Maybe even awed.

Fine. The booze might not be the kiss he wanted. But it was the kiss he was going to get. “I have to give it to you,” he said. God, it was a pleasure to acknowledge the booze while acting as if his little wandless magic display was nothing. “This is good stuff.”

“You’re a piece of work,” she said and picked up her own glass and took a substantial swallow.

“Fair enough,” he said. He pushed his shoes off with his toes and pulled his feet onto the couch. A ridiculous bit of fussiness. This upholstery wasn’t the sort anyone worried about, but Narcissa Malfoy’s training wasn’t the sort of thing he could ignore just because the couch wasn’t delicate cream silk or some sort of priceless antique. “Tell me about it.”

He didn’t mean about himself. He meant about the year. About _her_ year. “Was it bad?”

“Bad enough,” she said. Her eyes are on him. Burning him. “Why’d you do it?”

“Brew potions with Neville?” Draco asked as lightly as he could. “Because, contrary to the easy narrative, I’m not a total asshole.”

“It was something you could do,” she said softly.

“It was something I could do,” he agreed.

“Why become a Death Eater?”

Had Neville ever even asked that? Draco wasn’t sure. He didn’t think so. Theo had looked at his arm, turned away, and said nothing. Pansy had been as adoring as she always was at first, then very quiet about it. When she saw him with his sleeves pushed up later, her eyes slid over the Mark as if it weren’t there.

He’d never taken his shirt off to have sex with Neville. Not once. Trouser, pants, socks. But he kept his arms covered. Shame.

“It was something I could do,” Draco said. He looked down into his drink, swallowed the rest, then hurled the heavy glass at the wall. It shattered. “Want to see?” he asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. He unbuttoned his shirt at the cuffs, ready to push the sleeves up, then thought, _fuck it_, and undid every button down the front. He met her eyes as he did it. Turned it into a striptease. She wanted to know, did she? Let her see. And let her see the scars her precious Harry Potter had left too, and the handful of nicks and burns and cuts that had been cursed enough they healed wrong. They made of him a dull map of his mistakes, and the compass that told the direction, the Mark that said which was north, was burned into his arm.

He threw the shirt to the floor and held the arm out. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked.

She set her drink down and pulled herself closer, kneeling on the floor, one hand hesitating above the lines. They were grey now. Faded. He didn’t think they’d ever sink away. This was as light as they were going to get and she could see every inch of that stain on his skin. “You can touch it,” he said. It took some effort, but he kept the arrogance and the disdain solidly in his voice. “Voldemort’s dead. It won’t call him.”

Her hand shook, but she set a finger along the snake’s head. Goose pimples sprang into life along his arms, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a gasp at that touch. God, he shouldn’t have dared her to do this. Should have kept his fool mouth shut. Should have told her to fuck right off, that he’d become a Death Eater to save his parents and she would have done the same. He knew her. He _knew_ her. She’d followed Potter on his stupid, ridiculous, _hopeless_ quest. She was no stranger to doing what had to be done. 

She was tracing the lines and, for the love of God, his cock wanted to spring to attention. Draco bit the inside of his cheek and thought about Quidditch and Snape and fear and, fuck, he wanted her to keep touching him.

He yanked his arm away. “Got what you came for?” he asked.

“It wasn’t right,” she said, and her eyes glittered with what couldn’t possibly be tears because if Draco Malfoy knew one thing in this rotten world, it was that girls like her didn’t cry for boys like him. She was the hero. The golden girl. He was the idiot who’d bound himself to a monster.

“Yeah?” he said. He began to shove his arms back into his sleeves. He needed to put that bit of stupidity away. Enough vulnerability for one night. “Who told you everything in the world was going to be right?”

She pulled her wand again, and he braced for whatever curse she planned to launch at him, but she just whispered, “reparo,” and flicked her wand at the shattered remains of his glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sulisaints for betareading! 


	9. Chapter 9

Draco stops you in the hall. It’s a week before you’re all leaving for the Christmas holiday, and you can see it in his eyes. He’s ending it. You don’t know whether to be upset or relieved or pleased or sad. The truth is, you don’t feel much of anything.  
  
“It’s not you,” he says, and it’s such a funny line that you start to laugh. You’ve never been dumped before, but you know this is a cliché. “I’m just an arsehole.”  
  
His face goes tense at first under the force of your laughter, but then it relaxes. He’s heard himself. “I really am, aren’t I?” he asks, and he’s not. You know he’s not. Terrified, maybe. Angry, certainly.   
  
“You plan to stop coming up to the third floor?” you ask him because that’s what matters to you. Not his mouth on your cock. Not the feel of him. He knows. He knows, and he’s not trying to shove it all into some box labeled Bad Things I Won’t Think About. Or maybe he is, but he’s doing a piss poor job of it.  
  
“Fuck, no,” he says, then pauses. You can see his eyes become unfeeling. He turns himself into Draco Malfoy with one blink, and he adds in a condescending sneer, “Unless you’re too good for me now that -.”  
  
“Shut up,” you tell him. You smile a little, and his Malfoy persona disappears leaving a person in its wake. “We both know I’m worth a dozen of you.”  
  
“True enough,” he says, and he’s smiling now too. “I happen to know Granger’s got a bottle of the good stuff she’s been holding out on us.”  
  
“We’ll have to empty it before the holiday,” you say. “Wouldn’t want her to have to pack a full bottle back to the Weasleys. It’d be too heavy.”  
  
“The Weasleys,” he says. “Right.” And you have no idea what that sour tone is about, but you aren’t sure you care. Because, as of this conversation, you aren’t seeing anyone.  
  
Fucking anyone, as Nott put it.  
  
Nott.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Why is he still here?” the voice was shrill and unpleasant and unmistakably Hermione Granger’s. Draco closed his eyes because she was the last person he wanted to run into. She was in his fucking head, which was bad enough. She sat there with her gold-flecked eyes and her full mouth, and he was stuck. Stuck and stupid, because as of now he wasn’t going to get laid anymore either. He’d ended that because he was thinking about a stupid fucking cow of a witch who was going to trot off in a week to spend her Christmas holiday at her boyfriend’s house eating whatever it was poor people ate on Christmas.   
  
Potatoes, probably.  
  
She’d probably come back with a ring. Something small with a band that would turn her skin green, and she’d say with wide eyes some bullshit thing about how she didn’t care about the size of the diamond. What mattered was that they were in love.  
  
What mattered was that Ron Weasley was a good person.  
  
And he wasn’t.  
  
“Miss Granger.” Professor – Headmistress – McGonagall’s voice had the sound of tired, patient self-control which meant this conversation had been going on for too long. If she’d used that tone with him, Draco would have apologized. Would have ended it. It was too dangerous to keep pushing at people in power once you’d antagonized them. If he’d learned anything the year before, he’d learned that. That, and that his father couldn’t save him.  
  
“Miss Granger, I appreciate your concern – “  
  
“He tortured students.”  
  
Draco’s heart almost stopped beating. He held very still and tried to listen, tried to hear, even as he planned all the ways he’d excuse himself if anyone caught him eavesdropping. These were hallways, after all. He was allowed to be here. Allowed to be out walking.  
  
Here and not Azkaban.  
  
Free, just so long as he didn’t have a wand.  
  
“Miss Granger, Argus Filch has been a –“  
  
“He beat them, and he hurt them, and he laughed, and you have allowed him to come back and –“  
  
“This is quite enough.” McGonagall’s tone lost its patience and turned sharp. “I understand you are a young woman who has suffered tremendously, and I assure you that all of wizarding Britain is grateful to you for your sacrifices, but the staffing of Hogwarts is not your concern.”  
  
Hermione muttered something Draco couldn’t make out.  
  
“Go home, Miss Granger.” McGonagall’s voice was softer now. Warmer. She’d never spoken to him that way. Not to him. Not to anyone in Slytherin. “Go see Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter and try to let some of this go.”  
  
“I’ll see you in January,” Hermione said after a pause, and that was clear and hard as ice. Draco braced himself to lay out his excuses for why he was here, that he wasn’t listening, that he hadn’t heard anything, but both women were walking briskly away, the sound of their shoes on the floor dying away in the distance.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
_fragment of a journal entry  
  
…god I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t think I ever even looked at Filch before. He was just here. He might as well have been furniture. And now every time I see him pushing that mop, I think of him locking people in chains last year. Ron always said there was something wrong with him, and I never believed him. Said it was just because he got in trouble all the time. If he wasn’t doing anything wrong, why worry about Filch? I’m so [next portion of the journal is smudged and indecipherable], and everyone else is just not listening. It’s going to happen again. Just the way everyone is ignoring the past makes it inevitable, and the only people who seem to know or care are Neville and Malfoy. And that Nott boy. Ugh. Maybe M. is right, and I just need to go back to the Burrow and let this all go. But it’ll be weird not to see them at…_  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“What’re everyone’s plans?” Nott asks. The words are casual. Too casual, really. He’s dragged an armchair over from some misbegotten corner of the room – probably had to chase a boggart out of the cushions – and he’s swung his feet over one arm. He looks languid, and upper class, and like someone no one could ever touch. Certainly not you. “Going back home to lover boy, Granger?”  
  
“I guess.” She’s more close-mouthed than usual. Draco was right: she has a bottle of fire whiskey so smooth you don’t have to wait for the third sip for it to be a kiss.   
  
“Problem in paradise?” Nott asks.  
  
She pushes her tongue into the corner of her mouth, which looks hilariously like she’s got a cock in there – something you probably shouldn’t mention – before muttering, “Ron’s happy with the Ministry the way it is.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t he be?” That’s Draco. It’s the first night before you all go your separate ways for the holidays — the first night since he dumped you — and you expected it to be awkward, but it’s not. He flung himself down onto the floor and tossed you a glass, and that was it. From enemies to lovers to friends – friends? – without hesitation.   
  
Friends with Draco Malfoy. The world must be upside down.  
  
“Because it’s wrong,” Hermione says. She’s got that stubborn thrust out to her jaw, the same one she’d had years ago when she’d made hundreds of buttons to free the elves. She doesn’t quit things. “Because they’re just scooping up people like that Knight Bus driver and calling it… It’s wrong.”  
  
“Hate to be the one to point this out,” Nott drawls, “but our government doesn’t give a fuck.”  
  
Oh, the _glare _she sends his way. “I am aware.” Her words are pointed, filed to sharp points, ready to stab into the unwary.  
  
“So why are you so surprised your significant other is going along?” Theo asks.   
  
“Because he didn’t used to,” she says. “Because he knows they’re all corrupt, and rotten, and…” She sputters to a halt and takes a drink.   
  
It’s a drinking game. Every time someone you love disappoints you, take a drink. Or better not. They’d all be dead by New Year’s if they did that. The Christmas holiday is perfect for reminding you of every lever you have and how your grandmother can push on all of them at once. Did you forget, Neville? You can hear her voice now, impatient and wishing you were your father. _I told you to make a list. Whatever happened to that remembrall I sent you all those years ago?  
_  
_I don’t know, Gran. I lost that years ago._  
  
Then she tsks.  
  
“I wish he cared more about the ways they’re wrong,” she says. “I wish he saw that working with them is almost as bad as working with...” She stops again.   
  
Harry was always Dumbledore’s man. He’s never done anything but follow breadcrumbs the old man left out for him. He’s never had to think for himself. Just be brave. Just be noble. Just follow along the path like a good little sacrifice. And Ron’s followed along.

“It’s hard for them,” you say.   
  
“It was hard for you,” Hermione points out.  
  
“Well,” Draco says. “Speaking of hard and the Ministry, I get to have a supervised reunion with my parents. There’ll be an Auror there to make sure no one slips me a wand, or Dark Arts secrets, or too many biscuits. I’m sure it will be lovely.”  
  
“That sounds fun,” Theo says dryly.   
  
“Your reunion won’t be supervised?” Hermione asks. You’d wanted to ask the same thing, but it felt indelicate. Rude. Not things she’s ever worried about.   
  
“My father conveniently died in custody,” Theo says. His voice is too light and casual to be anything other than miserable. “So, no reunion. And since I was not unlucky enough to be recruited to the organization myself, I am, merely, another unfortunate Hogwarts student whose education was briefly interrupted — but who will be fine.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says.  
  
His mouth twists, pain leaking out in the turn of a lip and the bob of a throat before his whole face becomes a mask. “Thank you for your concern,” he says. “But I’m fine.”  
  
The look she gives him says, _Liar_. He apparently reads it as easily as you do because that mouth twists again before he says, “I’ll be going home to my large manor house, filled with priceless objects and one-of-a-kind books, and looking over the accounts to my substantial Gringott’s vaults. Don’t waste time feeling bad for me, Granger.”  
  
“Here’s to money,” Draco says, and raises his glass toward Theo. “Assuming the Ministry hasn’t confiscated it.”  
  
You wait for Hermione to announce that would be wrong, or right, or somewhere in between. You don’t have any idea whether it’s good or bad to take money from Death Eaters. It seems right because of the Carrows and then seems wrong because you remember Draco vomiting after a particularly rough day in class. There has to be a difference between them, right?  
  
Probably not as far as the Ministry is concerned. Or, whatever difference there is, they’ve already acknowledged it by not locking him away. Youth hath its privileges.  
  
“Will you go see your parents?” Hermione asks you gently.  
  
You hold onto your glass a little more tightly. “Yeah,” you tell her. Your good, good parents. Not like you. They didn’t find a respite from pain in the mouth of a Death Eater. They didn’t lead a rebellion that turned out not to matter. They defied evil and lost everything.  
  
At least you’re still you. You can taste the whiskey, see Theodore Nott’s measuring eyes observing the way you and Draco aren’t touching tonight. Know Hermione wants to see Ron and Harry even as she resents them folding themselves into an institution she dislikes. Feel Draco’s desperation to see his mother mixed with his dread of performing filial duty under the judging watch of an Auror.  
  
It’s all kind of awful, but it’s better than living in a ward at St. Mungo’s, a prisoner of your own mind.

  
“Merry Christmas,” you say, and raise your glass to the group. “See you all when we get back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Bethan for beta reading!


	10. Chapter 10

You hate Christmas.  
  
You hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it hate –   
  
Your grandmother has a witch over. Nice girl. Went to Beauxbatons. Speaks fluent French. You ask her about plants, and she smiles gamely and tells you she likes roses. It’s painful for both of you, and you can’t decide whether you resent her or pity her. When you see her send a trapped, miserable look at her own mother, you decide on pity.  
  
“Want a drink?” you ask.  
  
She does. Under her graceful nod and agreement of _that would be lovely_, you can tell that she wants to get terribly, stinking drunk. Her mother brought a bottle of Absinthe with her. She calls over the pair of you should try that. You pour the green liquor out into tiny crystal glasses and hand one to the girl. They clink. Pureblood wealth and prestige and no one has asked all night about that year at Hogwarts. No one has mentioned Voldemort at all. It’s as if it didn’t happen.  
  
You take a cautious sip.  
  
Absinthe tastes like Theodore Nott smells.   
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
_fragment of a letter  
  
… is really very tasteless, and I am sorry, I’ve been thinking about what you said on Christmas Eve, and I think you are right. If I’m not able to leave last year behind me and move on, we shouldn’t be together. I know you wanted to encourage me to let it go, but I can’t, and until I can, I’ll just be a weight around your neck, and I love you too much to want to drag you down with me. You deserve the world, and right now I just can’t give it to you.__  
  
__I’ve enclosed the necklace you gave me. It doesn’t feel right to keep it. I…_  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Draco could hardly wait to get back. The Auror looked smug as he and his parents exchanged stilted hugs and carefully measured greetings that said neither too much nor too little. His father looked sad and broken. His mother looked glossy and impenetrable and said everything exactly right. Her performance was as flawless as it had been when Voldemort had been the monster watching her, looking for a reason to strike.  
  
The women of the House of Black didn’t make mistakes. Not in front of snake monsters. Not in front of Ministry men. She kissed Draco on the cheek, wished him well, and like the coward that he was, he fled to the train station and barricaded himself in a carriage. Soon he’d be at Hogwarts with (Hermione Granger) classes to fill his hours, and that would be better.  
  
Except it wasn’t.   
  
Or it was, and it didn’t matter. Draco walked from class to class, and asked for his wand, and handed it back, and it hurt so much to hold it in his hand – to be a normal wizard for an hour – that he almost began to wish they’d just tell him no. Just cast him out. He’d made a mistake, been born into the wrong side, and there was no coming back. Better to be dead than to be this ghost, to be half a person, invisible and stripped of the symbol of what it meant to be himself.  
  
And Filch laughed.  
  
He pushed his mop, cleaning up a thousand muddy footprints with labor and sweat instead of a charm, and sneered. 

“Move,” Draco said. The contempt for the magicless from a thousand years of Malfoys and Blacks slid into his voice, and Hermione Granger, coming the other way down the hall, stopped and stared at him. Had she thought he was some kind of saint now? Had she fooled herself into thinking suffering had made him good? Pity, that. He’d been an arsehole at twelve, and he was an arsehole now.  
  
“Ye weren’t so bold last year, Malfoy,” Filch said, and pushed his mop in front of Draco’s feet. “I seem to remember ye down on the floor more’n a few times.”  
  
Hermione heard that too. Her eyes widened, and her mouth drew into a line that started at pinched and kept going further on into disapproval. It condemned, that mouth, and, for once, Draco wasn’t on the end of that condemnation. That she reserved entirely for Filch. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words pitched with such precision that, for a moment, Draco thought she was one of the pureblood girls he’d grown up with. He wondered for the first time what, exactly, her class was out there in the Muggle world. Not poor like the Weasleys, certainly. Not when she could imbue perfectly polite words with scathing disapproval the exact same way his mother could. “I must have heard you wrong.”  
  
She crossed the distance in the otherwise empty hallway with quick, clicking steps and looked at the ill-kempt custodian. “Did you mock a student of this institution because he was tortured by the Death Eaters who ran the place last year?”  
  
Filch leered at her. “Yer little boyfriend licked the filth off Amycus Carrow’s shoes, missy. Don’t you be getting so high and mighty on his behalf.”  
  
Hermione Granger reached out and grabbed the mop from Filch’s hand, then shoved him against the wall. Draco took a step back. He wanted to be shocked by the violence simmering in the air, wanted to be repelled by it, but he wasn’t. This girl – _this girl_ – was something he understood. Rage and adrenaline and the urge to hurt something. She’d hit him once. He’d thought that was an aberration, but it wasn’t.  
  
Her courage — that was something else. Something alien to him. Her anger, however, could have been his own.  
  
“Watch it, missy,” Filch said. “I still have the chains in my office I used on him, and I can ask McGonagall to use’em on you. Special reasons. Assaulting a member of the Hogwarts staff and all. Can’t be having that.”  
  
“Don’t threaten me,” Hermione said in a low, dangerous voice. She flung the mop handle back at Filch. “Don’t you dare ever threaten me. Instead, you should be apologizing to Draco.”  
  
She was so close to him that the spittle that flew from his mouth when he laughed hit her in the face. “To a student?” he asked. “To the garbage on the floor?”  
  
And then she hexed him.  
  
Cursed him, really.  
  
Draco was sure he had to have heard wrong. Had to have seen wrong, because Hermione Granger was a heroine, and Harry Potter’s golden girl sidekick, and she was good a thousand times through. But she had her wand in her hand and her _Avada _on her lips before Argus Filch had even stopped laughing. He had a moment to look surprised, to prepare to laugh again when her spell didn’t work.   
  
Then he died.  
  
Argus Filch hit the floor with an inglorious, dull thump. The only other thing Draco could hear was the sound of Hermione’s breathing. That was very loud. Exceptionally loud. So loud it rang in his ears and kept time with the roar his blood made rushing by.  
  
“Fuck,” Draco said, looking at the body. The words were even louder than Hermione’s breathing. Filch’s death was a fantasy he’d had a hundred times. He’d lulled himself to sleep imagining somebody – anybody – taking a wand to that bastard and ending him. Voldemort had been too frightening to fantasize about, even without the mind reading trick. But Filch. He’d wanted Filch dead. And now he was.   
  
Draco looked at Hermione Granger. She was lowering her wand a little too slowly. Her eyes looked a little too dead.  
  
Unforgivable.  
  
_Avada Kedavra_ was an Unforgivable Curse. It was a one-way ticket to Azkaban, do not expect a Ministry trial, do not hope for mercy. And Draco Malfoy, coward extraordinaire, wasn’t letting the person who killed Argus Filch suffer that. “We have to hide the body,” he said. He glanced down the hallway. Still blessedly empty, but that could change any moment. “Can you float it?”  
  
Hermione nodded, a little too stiffly, but she was listening to him. Plotting with him. “Girls toilet,” she said. “Third floor. There’s a tunnel to the Chamber. Drop it there. As long as Myrtle –”  
  
“I can distract Myrtle,” Draco said.  
  
As plans went, it was hastily put together and filled with enough bad ideas they could have listed for a week every way it should go wrong. But nothing failed. They made it to the third-floor girl’s toilet without meeting a single student. Myrtle was elsewhere, and Hermione Granger could mimic snake hissing well enough a portal swung open, creaking unhappily. “Doesn’t like my accent,” Hermione said bitterly as she floated Filch’s body to the hole, then shoved it down. Draco could hear it thumping wetly down. “Snotty fucking bastard.”  
  
“Filch?” Draco asked.  
  
“Slytherin,” she said, which made very little sense. Nor did, “Ron memorized it, but I heard him working on it, and it’s not that hard to repeat a phrase you’ve heard that many times, even one in Parseltongue.”  
  
She pushed at the door, and it creaked and groaned and snapped shut. The body was gone. The evidence was gone. All they’d left was a mop in a corridor and the spell history in her wand. No one would think twice about the mop. Hell, a house elf would probably put it away, muttering things about humans and leaving things about.  
  
The wand, though.   
  
Hermione washed her hands three times, scrubbing at the skin. “May I see your wand?” Draco asked.  
  
She didn’t even look at him. “Sure.”  
  
He pulled it gingerly out of her pocket and settled his hand around the base. It felt wrong. Some wands were easier to use than others, more comfortable with wizards and witches other than their chosen one. This one was not, or maybe it just didn’t like him in particular. Well, that was too bad. It needed to do a score of unimportant spells to make sure that _Avada_ was far enough back no one could call it forth. “_Accio_,” Draco whispered, and forced the wand to bring him a towel. “_Lumos. Leviosa_.” The wand grumbled and stuttered, but the spells dribbled out of it one at a time, hiding the murder.  
  
“I want a drink,” Hermione said.  
  
That way lay alcoholism, but Draco didn’t feel like this was a good time to point that out. “Do you keep a journal?” he asked.  
  
She nodded, instantly wary.  
  
“Go back to your room and write a dull little entry about classes or your feelings or something,” he said. “Not this.”  
  
She reached her hand out, and he set her wand in it. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “Thank you.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
_Journal Entry  
  
It’s strange to be back after spending time at the Burrow. I don’t suppose I’ll be welcome back now, so I’ll have to find someplace else to go for the Easter holiday. I’ll have to work on my friendship with Malfoy. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? His mother having to say nice things to me over Easter dinner. But better that than facing Molly. Maybe Harry will have gotten Grimmauld Place cleaned up by then, and I can visit him, though that’s less likely than Narcissa Malfoy making nice. I’ll probably just stay here. Study for NEWTs. That’s easier than anything else._  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Did you write the entry?” Draco asked her as he poured. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then added a substantial amount of water to her glass. If she complained, he’d say it was an accident, he didn’t really have control of _Aquamenti _without a wand. If she didn’t notice, good. He didn’t think she should be drinking herself into a stupor. Not after a murder. Loose lips got sent to Azkaban.  
  
He handed her the weak fire whiskey, and she sipped it. No reaction. “I did,” she said.  
  
“No guilt?” he pressed. A diary entry on the day of a murder that rattled on about something unconnected to the death of Argus Filch might help paint her as innocent if it came to that.  
  
“A little guilt,” she said with a bitter smile. “I talked about how I felt after breaking up with Ron.”  
  
The floor wanted to fall out from under him. Funny. Wasn’t that a cliché? The spinning room? The loss of balance. Draco felt it all. He picked up his own drink – similarly watered down in case she noticed the color difference – and sat on the couch far too carefully. “You did what?” he asked.  
  
“I wrote about Ron,” she said. She sat on the couch next to him and slouched down. “It seemed like a safe topic. People who commit murder don’t waste time feeling bad they broke up with their boyfriend. That’s a banal bit of misery.”  
  
“It is good camouflage,” Draco admitted. She was single. She was no longer seeing Ron.   
  
“What is?” Theo asked.   
  
Draco almost jumped up, caught sitting on a couch with Hermione Granger. Theo, however, barely registered that. He was too busy making a drink for himself and stretching his long legs out from a chair. “How did you get in here?” Draco asked.  
  
“I opened the door,” Theo said. “It’s not exactly arithmancy.”  
  
“Snot,” Draco said.  
  
“Prat,” he replied. “And about the camouflage?”  
  
Draco could hear Hermione take a breath, could almost feel her weighing whether she wanted to tell this person she barely knew but who was here. Who was one of them. Whatever that meant.   
  
But it must have meant something to her, because she opened her mouth and said, “I killed Filch.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Bethan for beta reading!


	11. Chapter 11

You rub at your forehead and, when that doesn’t work, try the base of your neck. That’s a failure too. Your head is going to pound whether you like it or not. Draco pulls a vial out of a pocket and sets it in your hand. Funny how he never quite got out of the habit of carrying pain potions around with him. Not that you have. There’s one in your bag. 

“Could you say that again?” you ask. You’ve been looking forward to this. Counting days until you could push open this door and see these people and feel _home_ again. Home isn’t your grandmother’s house anymore. Not that it ever was, not really. That’s a building where your family stores cups and plates and furniture and expectations and you don’t want any of them. You want this. 

Or you did until you walked into a confession. One you can’t quite be sure you heard right.

Theodore Nott eyes you, and he was another thing you’d been looking forward to. His casual, aristocratic honesty. No one else wants to tell the truth. They want to dance around what they mean and say things like, _Wasn’t she a nice girl, Neville_ and _A young man like you should be thinking of settling down_. Theo trots out some of that blunt honesty now. “Hermione killed Filch,” he says. 

_Good riddance_ is the first thing that comes to your mind, which is awful and wrong. You shouldn’t be glad someone is dead. Not even Argus Filch. Not even –

(Voldemort)

Well, there are exceptions.

(Amycus Carrow)

Not dead. In Azkaban with his sister. 

_Still an exception_, your brain whispers and you can’t argue. You want him dead. Want her dead. Want them both dead, but Wizarding Britain is too civilized to kill people. That’s a crime. That’s wrong. Just lock them up forever and –

If they were dead, would the nightmares stop? Would you feel whole again if they were gone? Do your parents sleep better knowing Bellatrix is dead? Do they even know? You’ve told them, but who knows what goes on in their minds, what is able to take root and grow down there in the damaged remnants of their sanity. You hope they know. You hope it brings them something like peace. 

“You can’t just kill someone,” you say.

“Rather obviously, I did,” Hermione says. Draco sets a hand on her shoulder, and she might lean into it and that, as your grandmother would say, is _interesting. _That’s very interesting indeed because you thought they hated each other. 

“I always miss the good things,” Nott says. He stands up, stretching his impossibly long legs, and ambles back over to the table where you’ve all put your bottles. “Blended fire whiskey, Draco? Really?”

“No one’s keeping you from contributing,” Draco says.

“Apparently, I’ll have to if I want something decent,” Nott says, but he pours himself some of the maligned whiskey anyway. “Tell me how you did it.”

“Avada,” Granger says.

“Too fast,” Nott says. 

“It was a bit of an impulsive act.” She sounds defensive that she didn’t do a good enough job of murder, which is a bit hilarious. Trust Hermione to want to get full marks at death. “Malfoy helped me deal with the body.”

You suppose that explains the sudden closeness between them. Nothing pulls people together like shared trauma.

“What do we do?” Hermione asks.

No one says anything, and you realize that all of them are looking at you. Looking _to_ you. You set your shoulders and press your lips together. They’re a bit chapped. You can feel the rough edge of the skin. “Will anyone find the body?” you ask.

“Not unless they speak snake,” Draco says. 

You don’t want to pursue that, so you shrug and say, “As long as no one’s going to find it, we don’t do anything.”

“Portraits?” Nott asks.

You glance at Hermione first, then Draco, and both blanch a little as they remember the castle is filled with painted informants. The portraits never told on any of you for scraping injured students off the floor and patching them back together. A whole year of insurgency and not a single painted lady ever whispered about it in Snape’s ear.

Or maybe they did, and he ignored it. He was a hero, after all.

You need a drink at that thought.

“Guess we’ll find out,” you say. “But they were on our side last year.” 

You can see them relax at that. Nott slides back onto his chair, back slouched. Draco steps away from Hermione and rubs the hand she’d been leaning on against his trousers. Hermione lets out a shuddering exhale. You’ve given them permission to let it go. You thought you were done being a leader when the war was over. Maybe you weren’t.

It feels good to have that back. 

You like that.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco almost caught three different hushed conversations between various members of the Hogwarts’ staff that week. Each time, he’d walk into the room, and they’d stop mid-sentence and turn smiles far too bright toward the students at the door. Class would begin without an explanation.

Draco didn’t need one. Filch was missing. No one could find him. He waited for a tap on his shoulder, for a polite request he follow a teacher out of the room, up to the Headmistress’ office, away to Azkaban. If killing someone was unforgivable, surely helping hide the body was too. But the tap never came. He was as soundly ignored as he had been all year. Handed his wand. Handed his homework. But he wasn’t looked at with any hint of new suspicion.

Maybe the portraits hadn’t seen anything. Or maybe they’d kept their mouths shut. Draco’s nerves insisted he ask Hermione Granger if anyone had cornered her in an office and asked her anything. They should have coordinated their stories. They should have –

He was panicking.

He wanted to talk to her.

He timed his exit from History of Magic to walk next to Hermione and tried not to think too hard about the way she’d felt leaning into his hand – trusting him to be nice, to be _comforting_, even if it’d been for all of three minutes – and put the usual condescending sneer on his face. Two Ravenclaw girls brushed past them, glanced at his mouth, and tightened theirs. They walked a little too quickly, a little too obvious in their eagerness to get away from him.

Hermione glared at their backs. Maybe it wasn’t just him they were too good for. Prejudice didn’t go away because one pretty Muggle-born was a hero.

“Enjoy the class, Granger?” he asked.

She tore her gaze away from the retreating backs and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. “History is safest when it’s so far removed from current events you couldn’t draw a parallel with a line.” 

That was as neat a dodge as Draco had heard in a long time. “I don’t think we’re supposed to think,” he said. Which was true, but he didn’t really care what she thought about tenth-century Goblin incursions or even the way the class seemed to avoid anything resembling recent history. All of that was totally irrelevant to the problem at hand, which remained the missing Filch. “Anyone… say anything?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But I keep seeing staff in nervous little groups.”

She didn’t try to pretend she didn’t understand him, which was a bit new. Pansy was sharp, but she had shellacked a veneer of fashionable ignorance over herself and pretended to need things explained lest anyone think she cared enough about events to follow them. And Greg and Vince –

Oh, God. Don’t think about Vince. Don’t think about him screaming as he fell. Don’t think about the smell of burning flesh, the smell of burning hair. Don’t think –

– had both been so stupid they always needed things spelled out for them. Talking to a woman who followed him without needing small words and a map was a pleasure. And he wanted to keep talking to her. 

“What you said.” Draco had to step around a bench to stay at her side. “Before the holiday about fixing things. Do you think it’s possible?”

“I’m talking to you,” she said, and she sounded almost playful. From any other woman, he’d have called that tone flirtatious. “And so far, I haven’t hexed you. Anything’s possible.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a gossip column in The Daily Prophet_

_… handsome, young Ronald Weasley out in Diagon Alley with an unknown young beauty. Has this war hero moved on from Muggle-born Hermione Granger? Friends refuse to answer questions, but a picture is worth a thousand words._

_[Photograph of Ronald Weasley with his arm around a young woman in a sequined dress. She has black, smooth hair twisted up in a neat coiffure. Her face is turned away from the camera. He’s smiling broadly and winking at the photographer. The wink plays out over and over and over again in the wizarding photograph.]_

. . . . . . . .

You see Hermione fold the morning paper with hands far too precise. She’s angry. Or hurt. The girl next to you – a fifth year, you think – watches her face, then giggles with nervous malice. “I guess the war is really over,” she says. A friend at her side licks her lips and waits for Hermione’s response. You remember her. She cried for her mother as you poured a pain potion into her mouth. She said she hated the war and everyone connected to it. _Even Harry_, she said. _I just want it to stop. _

Hermione stands and shoves _The Daily Prophet_ down into her bag. Her breakfast is almost untouched. 

You push your own plate away. “I was going to ask you to check on some of my plants,” you say. Hermione’s eyes flicker ever so slightly. She knows a lie when she hears one, but also an out. A graceful exit. She takes it.

“On the way to the greenhouses, maybe you can listen to some of my thoughts on post-War policy,” she says. “I’d like to run them by a few friends before I write them up for class.”

“Happy to oblige,” you say. You hold an arm out with a polite gesture, waiting for Hermione to go before you. You’re the sort of gentleman your grandmother wants you to be only, for a moment, it isn’t pretend. For a moment, it’s natural and exactly right. Then you feel stupid holding your arm out like some actor in a play about the 1800s, and you drop into step beside Hermione and let her open the door out of the Dining Hall for you.

“Bad news?” you ask.

“Ron made the paper,” she says shortly. You’re confused, and that must be obvious because she explains. “On a date. With another girl.”

“Didn’t you two…” You trail off, not sure how to ask if they’d ended it. You thought they had, but it’s not like you pay that much attention to her love life.

“Yes,” she says. It’s a neat and clipped answer that doesn’t invite you to ask for more details, so you don’t. She walks in silence with you all the way to the greenhouses, and you open the door with a sense of relief. The air is warm and wet and it surrounds you. You breathe in. Plants. You see a rose unfurling. Some dirigible plums have bloomed. And there’s the scent of licorice.

“About time you showed up,” Theodore Nott says from the table. His books are out. He’s been doing Arithmancy. He glances at Hermione. “Didn’t expect you.”

“I’m not staying,” she says. “Neville rescued me from breakfast.”

He doesn’t ask why she needed rescuing. Instead, he says, “You fucking Draco yet?”

She gapes at him, and you almost laugh. “I… no. What? Why would you ask that?” She can barely get the words out. She’s outraged and confused, and if she had feathers, they’d be puffed out all around her. 

Theo laughs. “I give you until Easter.”

She breathes in through her nose and glares at him before she turns and stomps off. The greenhouse door doesn’t slam, but not for lack of trying on her part. And you are alone. With Nott.

“How about us?” you ask. It makes your stomach sink down to your shoes, but you cut the head off a snake. You led a rebellion. People look to you for answers on what to do, and you can manage this. You can ask a boy who’s made it more than clear that he’s interested if he wants –

He’s smirking at you, and sliding a bookmark into his text and closing it with so much deliberation you have time to feel the blood creep up into your cheeks and you are burning. You and Draco just happened. There was no discussion. No embarrassing sharing of feelings. You were lost, and sex was a distraction. You’ve never had to ask someone out before. It’s awful. 

And then Theo is standing, and he has his hands on your face, and you’re kissing.

He tastes of stale tea and smells like licorice and hasn’t shaved yet today. You hadn’t noticed when you looked at him, but the feel of stubble against your skin has you pressing harder against him, pushing him until his back is up against one of the Victorian support beams. Another Slytherin. Your grandmother will have kittens. 

Another boy. She’ll have multiple litters of the things.

And you don’t care.

Fuck all their expectations. 

When you pull away, you study Nott’s face. Theo’s face. “Don’t do this if you don’t mean it,” he says. It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound unsure. You start to answer, but he goes on. “If the war hero breaks my heart, I don’t think I could put myself back together again.”

“I’m not,” you say. “I won’t.”

“You are.” He presses his lips first to one side of your mouth, then the other. “You’re like a light, Neville. People are drawn to you, and you don’t even know it.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you have better things to do than argue right now, and if your blood is still rushing, it’s not to your cheeks.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theodore Nott was only half wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to galwaygirl2 for beta reading, and to all of you for reading at all.


	12. Chapter 12

_excerpt from a letter…_

_...forwarded you his employment records on the off chance that will help the investigation. Argus Filch had no contact with his family and, as far as we have been able to determine, no close friendships. His only dependent appears to have been his cat, which I have taken in until we find him. As I expressed to the official who came to Hogwarts, I am concerned his death might be connected to last year’s unpleasantness. He was not unhappy with all of the changes in the school under Headmaster Snape, and at least one student has expressed concern that he was allowed to stay on. Perhaps if you sent a team of younger Aurors, more familiar with the school grounds, their search would be more successful than the ones up until now. I would most like to…_

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo looked pleased with himself when he came back to their shared room. Draco could almost smell it on him. “Get some?” he asked sourly. He shouldn’t be so pissy about it. Hogwarts wasn’t exactly a bastion of out, happy gays. Theo’s choices for years have been celibacy or being someone’s dirty little secret.

Theo, thank god, wasn’t the sort to take offense. Not to that. He tossed his bag down onto the bed and followed it, prying his shoes off with his toes and hooking his hands behind his head. “You’re an idiot,” he said.

“Granted.” There were things Draco couldn’t be bothered to argue about and that was one of them. “Any particular reason why?”

“That man has a mouth like – ”

“I know.” Draco cut him off before he could wax poetic about Neville. “Hope you’re enjoying my seconds.”

“You’ll be enjoying Ron Weasley’s soon enough.” Theo sounded far too smug and Draco had to restrain himself from asking whether Hermione had said anything. It was hard enough to know she was single. Hard enough to know he could make a move without being a total cad. Or maybe he couldn’t. Slurs and attacks weren’t the sort of thing that expired. If Alecto Carrow had shown up, professing _I can’t stop thinking about you_, her mouth filled with apologies, he wouldn’t have exactly dropped trousers for a quickie, much less been interested in a relationship.

God, he wanted that woman dead. If they could kill Filch, why not the Carrows?

“Any news?” he asked. About Filch, he meant.

Theo sighed. “You’re a bore,” he said. He rolled over and eyed Draco. “Instead of dwelling on that shit – and, by the way, the answer is no – you should trot your little arse over to the library and turn on some of that Malfoy charm and see if you can get in Granger’s pants.”

“What charm?” Draco asked. He tried not to sound as bitter as he felt.

“The charm that kept you alive when all the smart money was on Amycus overdoing it and hitting you a little too hard,” Theo said.

Draco didn’t think that had been charm so much as fear of his father. _My father will hear about this_ had gone from something he’d spit out like a bratty child to a subtle warning. It wasn’t one likely to gain him much traction with Hermione. Among other things, she wasn’t an idiot and she knew his father was more likely to send him a firmly worded note telling him to fuck right off with the Mudblood nonsense. Or, worse, to sit him down and give him a concerned talk about how, certainly, a man had his needs and he wasn’t one to talk about how you got those needs taken care of. But he needed to be careful she didn’t get ideas above her station.

Or, oh god, the idea that Draco could use her to bolster his status. He could hear his father now, a bit too hearty after one fire whiskey too many. _Have to admit I didn’t think you were that clever, but setting yourself up with Potter’s little Mudblood is brilliant. Show the world you’ve put any of the old prejudice behind you, show them you’re reformed. Then, after a few years, when no one remembers quite why they didn’t like you, move on, get a girl from a decent family._

“I don’t think Granger’s interested in me,” was all he said.

“I give you until Easter,” Theo said. “If she’s not sucking your cock by then, you’re pathetic.”

. . . . . . . . .

You stop in the corridor because a little Hufflepuff has tucked herself halfway behind a suit of armor and is shaking. You remember her from last year but can’t place her age. Second year? Third? Maybe she’s short, which could make her a fourth year but you don’t think so. She just looks young.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

She almost jumps and her eyes go wide with fear for a moment before she sees it’s you. “I just,” she begins to say, then reaches down to grab her bag. “I’m going to be late to class”

“I can write you a pass,” you say. It isn’t technically true, but you’re pretty sure no professor is going to give a kid detention if you say you found her crying in the hall. Then you think about Hermione’s ongoing issues with teachers who want to move on, who think it’s healthier to move on and change your mind. “Or I’ll go with you,” you add. “Tell them you were helping me move something, and it’s my fault and if they’re going to make anyone scrub pots or write lines, it should be me.”

Won’t be a blood quill. Won’t be a whip. You think you can write lines out for a few hours if it’ll help this poor kid.

“I just get scared sometimes,” she says. “Still.” She grinds the heel of one hand into her eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” you tell her. “It’ll be okay. They’re all gone now.” Dead or in Azkaban. Or his nightmares.

“What if there’s another one?” she asks. It throws you for a moment because of course there won’t be another one. Voldemort is dead. This time there was a body so none of those lurking whispers, hushed too quickly when a child comes into the room. There are no _what ifs_ this time. Grindelwald was an aberration. Voldemort one too. That there were two Dark Wizards in such a short span of time is nothing more than an accident of history. It isn’t a symptom of rot buried deep in your culture, not the way Hermione Granger says it is.

Hermione, who no one will listen to.

And this girl is watching you, waiting for an answer, and all you can say is, “There won’t be.”

“But how do you _know_?”

“Because I won’t let it happen.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“They’re sending Potter,” Draco said sourly. “Great.” He didn’t want to ask how Hermione had picked up that bit of news. Maybe she’d put her ear to a keyhole. Maybe the Chosen One had deigned to put pen to paper and write her himself. He wasn’t going to stoop to ask.

“And Ron.” Hermione didn’t sound any happier about it than he was. She was on her second drink and, at this rate, she’d be long past hit-onable before he worked up the nerve to suggest a quickie might be just the thing to relieve a little tension. To scratch the itch. To get her out of his fucking head.

“And this is a problem why?” Theo asked. Draco had pointedly not commented on the way his hair was in disarray. At least one of them was getting laid.

“They can get into the Chamber,” Hermione said.

“So?”

“So, it’s not exactly a widely known secret,” she said. “Outside of us, I’m not sure who else could even find it, much less get in, and – ”

“Wrong,” Theo said. “After the Weasley girl was found down there, gossip spread. No one is supposed to know, and therefore everyone does. Or thinks they do.”

“But how many of them can get in?” she asked, clearly not especially comforted by Theo’s snide drawl. She wouldn’t take it well if he scooted across the floor to put an arm around her, would she? Draco measured the distance between them, then considered how hard she could hit and stayed where he was. 

Still, the swell of her breasts was not the worst thing he’d ever looked at.

God, he was an arsehole.

“Why would they think you could get in?” he asked. “Are you that well known for your mastery of Parseltongue?”

She flushed, and her “No,” sounded more than a little embarrassed. “Harry could do it, but that was… not him. And Ron just memorized it. I don’t… they never heard me try it.”

“Too afraid you’d look stupid in front of them if you did it wrong,” Theo said knowingly. She glared at him, and he cocked a brow up, clearly daring her to say he’d got it wrong. She opened her mouth, then closed it and slouched.

“Points to Slytherin,” Draco said. The look she gave him was murderous, and he sneered back, wondering the whole time why he was being such a shite. So much for the Malfoy charm At the rate he was going, he’d charm her right into shoving him down a well.

“The _point_,” Neville said in an annoyed voice, “is that even if they find the body, they aren’t going to assume you dumped it there.”

“You are their friend,” Theo said. “Or so I thought. People tend not to assume the worst of anyone they’ve gone through hell with. You’ll be fine. If they ask you about it, just start lecturing them about how Filch shouldn’t have been allowed to be here and not that you _condone_ this, of course, but…” He let out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you can be outraged at them until they stop listening to you.”

She exhaled, picked up her glass, and took a small sip. “It will be fine,” she said. “You’re right. Maybe I’m just worried about seeing Ron again.”

“You could kiss and make up?” Theo suggested.

She shook her head, looking more sad than annoyed. “That’s not going to happen.”

Draco didn’t like the relieved way that made him feel. He didn’t like it at all.

. . . . . . . . . .

_Journal Entry Excerpt_

_… such an arsehole and I can’t stop thinking about him. At least he gets it. Everyone in our little drinking club gets it. I wish other people did. I wish Harry did. I wish Ron did. Instead, he told me to let it go. And I had to sit there at the table with his family and his mother and no one talking about Fred and smile and nod because they’ve lost so much more than I have and they are moving on. Visiting graves and talking about what Fred would have wanted and I don’t care what he would have wanted. I don’t care what my parents would have wanted. I’m the one here. I’m the one up at three in the night, writing because I can’t sleep. I keep seeing her. Bellatrix. Malfoy’s aunt. Why does everything come back to him? His friend Nott is just as much of a prat but I don’t wake up thinking about him. I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate…_

_. . . . . . . . ._

You don’t take the _Prophet_. It’s a rag, and your grandmother had sniffed out her disapproval of the way it had exploited your parents’ tragedy. Pain sells. You can’t blame her. You don’t want your pain on display to make money for some publisher either. That doesn’t mean you don’t occasionally glance at it when someone leaves a copy behind. Like today.

You’ve come to breakfast late. It’s easier that way. The fourth and fifth years have early classes, and you don’t want to face them. Don’t want to see them healing. It’s not that you’re angry they’re better. You aren’t. You really, really aren’t. You’re thrilled most people seem to be resilient, most people seem to be moving on.

It’s just that you’re not, and it’s easier to eat in silence. Easier to pick up the discarded paper and read about the new album Celestina Warbeck is releasing, about a recipe for shepherd’s pie, about an upcoming book by Corban Yaxley.

You almost drop the paper. Your hands are shaking when you pick it back up. He hadn’t been here, but you know all the names of the Death Eaters. You learned them, knew who to be wary of. _Only in the Prophet_, the paper screams, as if it has any real competition. _Direct from Azkaban, murderous Death Eater tells all in his own words. Turn to page 3 for exclusive excerpt and coupon for five sickles off the hardcover._

You fold it up and put it in your bag, down with some special fertilizer that came by owl post and a little box with 100 gum and candy wrappers, all neatly smoothed out and stacked. You’ll go to class. You’ll go check on the greenhouse. You’ll plant something.

But you don’t do any of those things. Instead, you do down to the dungeons and hammer on the wall outside Slytherin until a little third year opens the door, eyes wide at the blood on your hands where you scraped them against the stone.

“Get Nott,” you tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to galwaygirl2 for beta reading! And to all of you for reading. A book doesn’t exist without a reader, so your eyes will this into being.


	13. Chapter 13

“What the fuck?” Nott takes your hand and turns it first one way, then the other. “I know I’m delightful, but maybe try not to hurt yourself in your eagerness to see me.” 

Something on your face must look more bleak than usual, though, because he shoos away the kid who opened the door and slides you through a common room that feels cold and dark, filled with watchful eyes, before going down a corridor and opening a door. There’s only two beds in the room, both made with the sort of meticulous precision your grandmother would appreciate. The blankets are smoothed. The pillows are centered. Each bed has a small, green pillow with an embroidered S sitting in front of the regular pillow. The room looks more like an advertisement for bedding than a room where real people live.

You have no idea which bed is Nott’s.

“There’s just the two of us,” he’s saying as he opens a wardrobe and pulls out a box. That’s far more familiar than the immaculate room. You all had one of those last year. First aid, but along with the gauze and plasters a dozen different potions. Draco probably brewed half of them. Bone setting. Blood replenishing. Burn healing paste. The regular thing any normal student needs at boarding school. He pulls out a salve and some gauze but, honestly, you’ve been hurt so much worse than this you barely notice.

“If you have a washcloth,” you say because you don’t want to get blood on the linens.

He does, and with a little magic it’s wet and you’re wiping away the blood. 

“Should I drop my trousers,” Nott asks after you hand the dirty towel back, “Or is my ego going to have to suffer the slings and arrows of you being here for something other than my cock?”

You hand him _The Daily Prophet_ silently. He reads it, then says, “Fuck,” in a tone of absolute rage, followed by, “They are not giving that rat bastard a platform to spew his filth.”

If you’d ever had any doubt about Nott’s feelings about his father’s political hate group, you don’t anymore.

“It’ll sell,” you say, and that’s what grates. It will make so much money. Oh, there’s probably some cutesy workaround about how Yaxley’s earnings will all be donated to some very attractive sounding charity. _War Orphan Education Fund_ or some such bullshit. But the publisher will make money. It’s why they’re printing it. And while most people will read it out of morbid curiosity, someone – probably multiple someones – will get excited about Death Eater philosophy.

They’ll decide the real problem was that Voldemort was more than a few bats shy of a full belfry.

They’ll decide they can do it better. Work more slowly. Play within the rules of the current system and step by step rebuild the Knights of Walpurgis until their hate is just the other side of an argument. We should all look at both sides, people will say.

Oh, god. Hermione was right.

You sit down on one of the beds, and Nott sits next to you. Thank god, you must have picked the right one. Or maybe you’re both sitting on Malfoy’s bed. Which makes you wonder –

“Where’s Draco?” you ask. 

“Wasn’t my turn to watch him.”

Nott loosens his tie and bites down on his lower lip. It makes him look a bit like a rabbit. “Were you looking for Malfoy?” he asks and you realize how shitty that would be. It would be so, utterly horrible to come here just to ask him where Draco Malfoy was. 

“No,” you say. It hadn’t even occurred to you to look for Draco. You’ll tell him this later. Him, and Hermione too. But right now, who you want is this gangly man waiting to be told he’s not good enough. You set your hands on his face, run a thumb over the edge of his mouth. You hope he doesn’t plan to run when he finds out about the nightmares. About how sometimes you want to burn everything down. About how sometimes it feels like you’re still back there, still in it, and it’s never going to be over. That’s too much to confess, though. Too much to ask of someone. “You,” is all you say instead. “I was looking for you.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, that’s good then.” A flash of that cockiness comes back into his eyes. “I’m better than Malfoy is anyway.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Fiendfyre burns hotter than any nightmare and he’s clinging to a broom, clinging to Harry-fucking-Potter, who flies like a man possessed and below him there’s

screaming, he can hear

Vincent screaming and screaming and screaming and Draco already knows he’s going to hear that voice in his dreams for a thousand years and the smell (human flesh smells in a way that’s horribly, unforgettably distinct), he’ll never forget the smell. Even regular fires, smoke, let’s have a bit of a firepit down on the beach, even that is a no go for him. No more recreational flames. No more heating with wood, for the rest of his life he’ll be

clinging to Harry Potter, who he hates. _Hates_. Chosen one. On the Quidditch team a year early. Rules broken for him. Points added for him. People will do anything for Harry-fucking-Potter and for six years Draco wanted nothing more than to see him fall off his broom, off his perch, off his fucking pedestal and now all he can pray is don’t fucking fall, fly like hell is after you fly like

_I don’t know who he is, I can’t be sure._

_He could have turned us in_. Such sincerity. And one of the few good, brave things Draco’s done in his whole misbegotten life is dirty, just like that. It gets sly looks now, and questions about _What did he have to gain?_ and _You know what the Malfoy’s are like _and

Scared of the Dementors, Potter? You’re laughing at him, and he’s crossing his arms and then he’s gone, faded away because

It’s coming. Black mist like smoke from a fire, coalescing into a figure like tattered rags, like a ghost, and it leans down, the hood of its robe falling open to reveal Vincent Crabbe’s face, burned black, charred, skin flaking off, but his eyes see you. “You left me to burn,” and then he bends down to

Kiss you

Draco woke himself with the screaming, glanced over at Nott’s bed. He’s put a pillow over his head. No muffling charm. Too dangerous not to hear things. Too risky. Better to wake up to screaming than miss a door opening. Miss one of the Carrows coming in to do an inspection.

“Sorry,” Draco said.

The “Fucker,” was tired and unimpressed and forgiving and Draco lay back down and counted his breaths until the sun came up.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt of a book review_

_… formerly known as the Knights of Walpurgis, can hardly be considered admirable – indeed, the author is in Azkaban for good reasons – you cannot deny that Mr. Yaxley writes with both eloquence and a poignant sense of the history of the wizarding world. I predict his memoir will become a staple of book clubs, not in spite of the author’s checkered past, but because of it, and more than one witch will wish her own children wrote with such precision and…_

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco was sitting against the back wall in the Astronomy tower when Hermione found him. He liked to come up here sometimes, though like might be the wrong word. Felt compelled, maybe. It was a good thing the room of lost items was gone, burned to a crisp by fiendfyre. If that place were still available, he’d probably haunt it, the ghost of a boy who once was. Instead, he came here and remembered.

The mocking

His hand shaking

“Severus, please.”

And then Snape firing off an Unforgivable curse, and Dumbledore falling. Falling. He wanted to reach out and say, “I didn’t mean it,” and “Wait, come back,” and just, “No,” but he couldn’t. Time marched on an inexorable path and all he got to do was go forward. 

“Malfoy,” she said, then, “Christ, it’s cold up here. Have you lost your mind?”

A flick of her wand and a muttered charm and the air around him noticeably warmed. “Look who’s fancy with a wand,” Draco muttered. “In case you’ve forgotten, Granger, I’m a war criminal on probation because of my youth. I don’t get to do magic outside of class.”

She sank down to lean against the stone wall next to him. “That’s shitty,” she said.

“Well, take it up with the Ministry.”

“I just might.”

Draco tipped his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. The funny thing was, he could imagine her storming into the Ministry, hair cackling and mouth held in a stubborn line. Hermione Granger, saver of lost things. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I don’t like you,” she said.

Well, great. It wasn’t as if that was something he didn’t know. “Consider starting a club,” he suggested sourly. “You could have badges.”

“Malfoy Stinks? Maybe I could get them to flash on and off?”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. She looked almost mischievous, and he remembered the Potter Stinks badges he’d made back when he’d thought it was all about Quidditch and House points. Nice days, those. “It’s an idea,” he said. “Probably be more popular than those spew things you made.”

“Ess pee ee double-you,” she said. “Not spew. And are you always this much of a dick to people?”

“When the conversation starts with _I don’t like you_, it doesn’t really inspire me to offer to braid your hair, no.”

“Well, I don’t. But I,” she paused and seemed to search for the right word. “I _appreciated_ your help the other day.”

He bet she did. But if there was anything in the world he didn’t need thanks for, it was that. He tried to think of the right way to say that. Just coming out with _Happy to help anyone who killed Filch,_ might not be the subtlest way to go. So far, the portraits had kept their mouths shut, though it was probably too much to hope for that would continue. “I had an interest in your project,” he decided on. That was vague enough – _academic_ enough – that it shouldn’t spark any undue curiosity. “Happy to help.”

“And I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“A common problem women have,” he said. “Owl Pansy. She might have some tips.”

She shoved him. Hard. The force of her hand pushed him further into the wall, but before he could tell her off, her lips were on his, and this was impossible. It was utterly, wholly impossible because, as she’d just said, _she didn’t even like him_. But her hands were on his cheeks, and when he opened his mouth, more in shock than any kind of amorous intention, the tip of her tongue brushed against his and he groaned. He’d thought about this. _Wanked off_ to this. Hell, he’d ended things with Neville because he wasn’t quite enough of a shite to fuck one person while thinking of another, but he hadn’t expected it to happen. Not even when she’d said she and that Weasley moron had broken things off. 

Weasley.

He pulled himself away from her with some effort and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” he said, “but is this about the Chosen One and his merry ginger sidekick coming up here as Aurors to investigate Filch’s disappearance?”

She looked blank. “What?”

He leaned toward her. He wanted to pick up her hand. Wanted to find out if sucking on her fingers had any impact on her. “It’s no secret Weasley’s moved on,” he said. “It’s all over the fucking papers. And Potter might have decided I’m not _quite_ the scum between his toes, but I’m pretty sure Weasley still hates me.”

“Probably,” she said.

“So, a little fling with me might be just the thing to rub his nose in.”

The look of confusion on her face transmuted to anger. “You think I’m _using_ you?”

“It makes a fuck load more sense than the idea _Hermione Granger_ would waste a moment of her time on a loser like me.”

She slapped him. Hard. 

He reached a hand up to his face. Blood trickled out from the corner of his mouth. She hadn’t held back but, then, he’d felt so much worse. “Hit me again, and I’ll hit back,” he said.

“Don’t call yourself a loser.”

“You still want to kiss me if you can’t use me as a weapon against the ex?”

Draco wasn’t sure what he expected her answer to be. Another slap, perhaps, or a flounce and furious look as she stormed away. The kiss he got instead wasn’t tender. It wasn’t kind or loving or gentle. “You don’t tell anyone,” he managed to get out before she bit his lip, and he shoved his hands into her hair and pulled on it as hard as he could. “Not one person.”

“Like I’d want anyone to know,” she almost spat out.

As Draco Malfoy pulled one of the saviors of the wizarding world against him and kissed her with almost mindless fury, he wondered why that hurt as much as it did.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt of a letter_

_… will expect to see young Mr. Potter and Weasley on Monday, then … _


	14. Chapter 14

Knowing he’d hidden a body Potter was here to search for made Draco’s Monday breakfast even less pleasant than usual.

Draco didn’t like to spend a lot of time analyzing his feelings about Harry Potter, mostly because he always ended up feeling inadequate. How did you compete with _killed an immortal madman and saved all wizarding Britain? _You didn’t. Seeing the bastard was always a punch in the gut. He drew every eye in the room and always had, and Draco was at least honest with himself enough to admit he was jealous. But the day Potter arrived, walking into the Dining Hall with Weasley predictably on his tail, head down to listen to whatever Headmistress McGonagall had to say, Draco was braced for him.

“The cavalry’s here,” Theo said.

“Christ, did they let him bring horses into the Hall?” Draco asked without looking up from the history book he’d very deliberately focused his attention on. “Fame does have its privileges.”

Theo snorted. The other Slytherins managed to conjure a few awkward laughs. House solidarity warred with the awe Potter elicited even from them.

“Well, he has Weasley,” Theo said. “Does horse-faced count?”

That elicited far more sincere laughter. Ronald Weasley’s role in the war was vaguely understood at best, and their long-standing rivalry with his House made him a comfortable target. Draco risked a glance up. The pair of them were standing not at the Head Table, where as visiting Aurors they ought to be, but with the Gryffindors. Ron Weasley set a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, which she plucked off. He moved a few steps back, hands returning to his pockets with an awkward casualness Draco didn’t buy for a moment. He’d been rebuffed. It was beautiful to watch. He wished now he hadn’t cornered Hermione into keeping their – whatever it was – a secret. It would be a thing of glory to go over to that group, slide in next to her, and wrap an arm around her shoulder.

Unless, of course, she flung that off too. He suspected she wasn’t any more keen on being a weapon shoved in Weasley’s face than he was.

Theo followed his gaze. “You’re about as subtle as a brick,” he said.

Draco returned his attention to the history of Grindelwald’s rise. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt of a journal entry_

_… dare he? As if he hadn’t been in every society column, as if he hasn’t made it very clear he’s moved on. Which is fine and I do not begrudge that but coming in and pressing his hand down into my shoulder as if he bloody well owned me, as if we were still together. He’s like a dog trying to piss on his territory. “You been seeing anyone?” As if it’s any of his business. As if I would tell him. I should have. I should have said, “Oh, just Malfoy,” just to see the look on his face. Hah. It would be like McClaggen, only worse_

_Shite._

_Was Malfoy right? _

_. . . . . . . . . ._

You can feel Draco’s eyes. You got used to it last year. You’d scan the room and notice what everyone was looking at without reacting, and Draco is staring right at Ron’s hand on Hermione’s shoulder. The hand she is pushing off with a grimace on her face.

“I just asked you a question,” Ron says, shoving his hands down into his pockets. “I thought we were going to stay friends.”

“And I don’t talk about my sex life with my friends,” Hermione says primly. It’s all you can do not to look over at Draco, but you manage to keep your eyes on Harry Potter’s face. Harry who, thank god, looks as uncomfortable as you feel.

“Maybe we can talk about something else,” Harry says. “Like Filch.” He twists his mouth, and you’re grateful for all the practice you had hiding your feelings last year because you keep a bored, vague expression in place.

“Why was he even here?” Hermione demands.

Ron blinks at her a few times. “What?”

“He shouldn’t have been allowed back,” she says, and she twists on the bench and leans toward Ron and Harry the way she does when she’s got a topic she is going to go on about at some length, because she cares, and you’d better care too. Ron looks at Harry, a nervous grin on his face. _Please make her stop_, that grin says, but you want to cheer. She’s going to push suspicion right off herself by going on and on about Filch.

She waves a hand up at you. “He _tortured _Neville,” she says.

“Technically, he helped the Carrows torture me,” you say.

“Oh, that’s so much better,” she says. “I stand corrected. He didn’t actually do the torturing. He aided and abetted the torturing. He chained students up so they could be _beaten_, did you know that?’

“I, uh.” Harry is looking just as lost as Ron. This isn’t the thing people like to hear. No one publishes stories about this. It’s all brushed under the rug in favor of the much more interesting quest Harry went on. His story has a happy ending. He found the magical items and defeated the big bad evil. The Hogwarts story is less uplifting.

“And someone let him back in this school,” Hermione is saying. “They decided, hey, sure we have an entire population of basically enslaved elves to do the cleaning – ”

“Are you still going on about spew?” Ron asks.

“Ess pee ee double-yu,” she says. “And yes. But stay focused. Hogwarts already had an entire staff of elves doing the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry and the mending, so Filch wasn’t even _necessary_, but here he was, pushing a mop, leering at students, reminding them of what he used to do to them. You yourselves used to say he was a menace.”

“Well,” Ron says. “That doesn’t mean he should be murdered.”

“It doesn’t mean he should be working in a school alongside the very people he tortured.”

“Abetted the torture of,” you say softly. This is so beautiful. She’s on an absolute tear and no one – absolutely no one – would ever think she had any guilt about Filch’s unlamented disappearance. Guilty people tried to hide. They avoided questions. They certainly didn’t lecture Aurors on the character flaws of the deceased.

Harry sighs. “Hermione,” he says. “Do you have any idea who would have wanted him dead?”

“Me,” she says promptly. She holds up a hand and starts ticking off fingers. “Every student who was here last year. Probably half the staff. And I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one Death Eater locked away in Azkaban sits in a stew of curdled resentment that they’re locked up and he’s still here, mopping away.”

“Except he’s not,” Ron says.

She shrugs and it’s so utterly callous, so _indifferent_, you’re amazed. “Good luck finding who did it. But I think you’re going to get a lot of ‘glad he’s gone’ and not much else. Who are you talking to first?”

“The portraits,” Harry says.

It’s a good thing neither of them are looking at you, because you can’t control the brief moment of panic.

. . . . . . . . . .

“They’re going to talk to the portraits,” Neville said softly as he passed Draco in the hall. “Fair warning.”

“She knows?”

“She was there when they told me.”

. . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from Auror Report #89456, Missing Person (Filch, Argus)_

_… proved universally unwilling to cooperate in any meaningful way. While no student refused to be interviewed, none of them recalled seeing Argus Filch on the day he disappeared and more than one suggested it was ‘no loss.’ “I’d like to shake the hand of whoever got rid of him,” was repeated in slight variations over a dozen times._

_Faculty were more cooperative, but no more helpful. However, it was the interviews with the Hogwarts portraits that were the most …_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Draco was good at following people, especially Potter. He’d been a little shite long before he’d become a

(right bastard, unforgivable, scum)

Death Eater and he’d been obsessed with beating Potter. Potter, with his fancy broom and his permission to join the Quidditch team a year early. Potter, who was an Auror now and interviewing portraits. Draco kept casually out of sight around corners and in classrooms. He had a book open everywhere he went because he wasn’t _following Potter. Christ, you really do think you’re the Chosen One don’t you, and the rest of us of have nothing better to do than trail after you. For your information –_

He had arguments in his head with the man as he tailed him. Told him off. Thanked him. Listened to him, because if anyone gave up Granger he planned to be hammering on her door and telling her to get out before anyone came for her.

“He splashed water on me once,” a dryad said from her painting, flimsy towel held with something approaching modesty over her ample chest.

“I’d think you’d like that,” Weasley said. “Given all you do is splash around in a pond.”

“_Dirty_ water,” she said with a sniff. “From the _floor_.”

“I didn’t ask if you liked him,” Potter said. He’d been doing this all morning, and so far, Draco hadn’t heard a single portrait give them up. Some flirted with him. One suggested he take her painting back to his office because she didn’t want to talk about Filch – such a slimy, pathetic little man – but she’d be more than happy to tell him all sorts of things all day long. Potter told her he didn’t think McGonagall would let him do that, and the plump Renaissance beauty refused to tell him anything else. Portraits didn’t like rejection.

“No one liked him,” the dryad said. “Elves know how to clean a girl up.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Weasley muttered.

“Neither did Filch.”

It was a long day of skulking and at the end, after Weasley went off muttering about how he’d be in Hogsmeade getting a drink and what a bloody waste of time this had been, Potter walked into the room where Draco sat, history book out, quill neatly taking notes on a sheet of parchment.

“Have fun today?” he asked.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Draco said.

Harry picked up the book and Draco sat seething with resentment. He couldn’t snatch it back. Couldn’t use magic, not on an Auror, and he had to just sit there and take it. Sit there and let Potter stand over him when he’d wasted a whole day trying to keep his little Muggle-born friend safe. Wanker. Prick. Half-blood bastard.

“Grindelwald’s rise to power. Interesting choice of reading material.”

“Some of us are in school, Potter, and we have to sit N.E.W.T. exams. Not all of us got swept up into the loving lap of the Ministry.” Where we suck government cock, but Draco didn’t say that part out loud. Just kept the scornful sneer in place and tried to imply it.

Potter never was stupid. He tossed the book back down. “As I recall, your father has spent more than a little time in that lap. And it’s not that loving.”

“Try not to choke on it.”

“I’ll keep that advice in mind, Malfoy.”

. . . . . . . . . .

You raise the glass of very much _not blended _whiskey – Theo had stalked his way down to Hogsmeade and come back with something so expensive it made you gasp – and the others do the same. You can’t quite bring yourself to say, “Here’s to getting away with murder” out loud, so you say, “To fairness.”

“To fairness,” they echo before drinking. The Aurors have come. The Aurors have gone. None of them have been hauled away. Harry didn’t even look down in the Chamber of Secrets, where Filch lies, rotting. He went in tunnels, and poked into rooms that didn’t always exist, and in the end said that without a body, all they really had was a case of dereliction of duty, and it wasn’t as if quitting your job was a crime.

He clapped you on the back, hugged Hermione, and looked straight at Draco while mouthing something you couldn’t make out. Draco had raised two fingers to his lips in the shape of a V and kissed them before sending the gesture Harry’s way.

And the world is the same. Filch is gone, and the Carrows are in prison, and Corban Yaxley has a book coming out. Fair. You want things to be fair.

A good person would make things fair, would make things right, even if he became a monster in the process.

You take a sip of the whiskey and lean your head back against Theodore Nott, Slytherin, son of a Death Eater, and a man who rests a hand against your shoulder as if you were the most perfect gift he’s ever been given and he still can’t believe it. Your parents would have liked him, you think. Someone brave enough to turn his back on his history, his House. Someone who might love you, someday. They would have thought he was good.

. . . . . . . . .

Draco shoved her against the wall. It had to hurt, but all she did was grab his hair and pull his mouth toward hers. “I don’t even like you,” he said, but the words were as false as the way he’d pretended not to be afraid of the Carrows. She didn’t care, anyway, so his lie didn’t matter. She probably preferred this as hate sex. Safer that way. Easier. And he shouldn’t expect more. No one wanted to like Draco Malfoy. He was good for sex, a blow job, a quick hand with the potions. He wasn’t the sort of person you cared about.

One of her hands fumbled with the button on his trousers and he groaned into her neck. A nail scraped at his skin, and then she had him. “You want this?” she asked.

The answer had to be obvious, and he closed his eyes. “Granger,” he said, but her hand didn’t move. He twitched in her grip, thrusting himself forward in a wordless, humiliating plea she do something, do _anything_, other than keep her hand resting, unmoving, on his prick the way she was.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want you,” he said hoarsely. Honestly. “I want you any way I can have you. I wake up wanting you. I go to sleep thinking of your mouth, and, and, and…”

But her hand had started moving, and then she was on her knees and it was her mouth, and he had to reach his hands out to brace himself against the wall to keep his legs from buckling out from under him, and any more talking was impossible.

. . . . . . . . .

You stand with your hand spread out against Snape’s plaque. You hated him. He’d seemed like such a bastard. Such an utter, unending well of cruelty. He’d been ugly, and he didn’t wash his hair often enough, and he could slice into a person’s soul with a single, well-crafted phrase.

He’d never beaten a student.

Never tortured.

Get called to his version of the Headmaster’s office, and he’d come up with some seemingly unpleasant task like send you out into the Forbidden Forest to collect something. _Surely even you, Longbottom, can’t bumble your way to failure with a task as simple as this_, he said once, handing you a list of plants needed to brew healing potions. Plants that grew in a forest no one was allowed to go in. _Try not to get killed by the spiders. It would involve tiresome paperwork._

You hate him.

You want to hate him.

Why can’t you hate him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the inimitable OlivieBlake for beta reading.


	15. Chapter 15

_excerpt from a letter_

_… Malfoy. Maybe, unlike the rest of you, he’s not happy to sweep everything under the rug and just pretend it’s all fine. Up to something? Do you even hear yourself? He’s not even allowed to carry a wand. What do you think he’s going to do? Punch you? So, he flipped you a rude gesture. He doesn’t like you_, _and, the last time I checked, the feeling was mutual. So, he’s reading a book about Grindelwald. It’s not like he’s planning to become the next Dark Lord, Harry, for God’s sake. Maybe he just wants to know more about a bit of recent history that isn’t exactly covered in the Hogwart’s curriculum. I’m the one who told him if we didn’t do anything there would just be another Voldemort. Another Grindelwald. You would do well to crack open a book yourself some time instead of…_

_. . . . . . . . . . ._

“How did you get this one?” Draco asked. He had his hand resting on a puckered, ugly scar on Hermione’s shoulder. He recognized the tell-tale signs of a curse scar, but he didn’t know the map of the lines that made her up. A ridge here. An indent there. The war had written itself into her skin in ways far subtler than his, but no less real. No less present.

“Death Eater,” she said shortly. She sat up and reached over to the chair where she’d thrown her clothes, and his mouth puckered up. This topic seemed to be off limits, rather like everything else. How did she feel? Fine. How had classes gone? Fine. Draco wasn’t used to struggling to make conversation, especially not with a woman who’d been dragging her nails across his back not ten minutes earlier while she muttered his name in a guttural chant against his shoulder.

Draco

Draco

Draco

Not Malfoy. Not when his cock was in her. Not when his fingers worked to get her off. But now she was ice again, and he was some peasant she’d sullied herself with.

“Good enough to fuck, but not good enough to talk to?” he asked.

She stopped, arms through her bra, fingers reaching around to hook it. “I don’t mean it like that,” she said.

He sat up and took the two bits of fabric and slid the hook back into its catch. He’d done this often enough for Pansy, though with her he’d felt like he could lean in, press his face to her skin, breathe in one last moment of peace before facing the world again. If he kissed that space between Hermione Granger’s shoulders, if she pulled away, that would be one stab he didn’t need. “I’m sure,” he said, hooking the bra without risking that stab. Just put the hook in the eye. Don’t be affectionate. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Harry said you were reading about Grindelwald.”

Draco stood up and reached for his pants. So, she and Harry Potter were talking about him. Wasn’t that just grand. “Did he tell you I flipped him off?”

“Yes.”

Whiny little bastard. “He plan to ship me off to Azkaban for not kissing his lily-white arse like everyone else?”

“He didn’t say.”

Great. Draco pulled his pants up, pushed first one leg, then the other, into his trousers. She stirred behind him, and he hated the war senses that told him she was putting clothes on, standing up. Always be aware. Always know who’s behind you. He kept waiting for it to get easier, but at least when she set a hand on his shoulder, he was prepared for it and didn’t flinch.

He turned to look at her. Blouse still unbuttoned. Lace bra cupping her breasts. Purple scar peeking out. “It was a man named Dolohov,” she said. That made him flinch. He knew all of them, of course. Knew how they took their tea. What their table manners had been like. How vehement they’d been in their hatred of Muggles. Dolohov had been especially bad.

“I crucioed him once,” Draco said. “Him and Rowle.” It had been horrible. It had been wonderful. He’d wanted to vomit even as he’d held his wand out and cursed the pair on Voldemort’s orders. The curse felt sweet on his tongue. That still made him feel dirty. He was no better than they were. No purer. He’d only been less talented. Still, they’d failed to catch Potter, and it had been so good to turn a little bit of the pain they liked to dole out back on them. It had also been a lesson in what happened to people who failed to get the Dark Lord his prize.

“He deserved it,” Hermione said, which was true enough. He’d deserved it and more. Draco could still be holding that wand, still sending jolts of fire and hell into the man, and it wouldn’t be enough to balance the scales.

He risked putting a finger out to touch the scar, and she didn’t slap his hand away. “They said I was lucky to survive,” she said. “I don’t like to think about it. That’s all.”

“We were all lucky,” he said. He wasn’t so sure they’d survived, though.

. . . . . . . . . .

“This is bullshite.” Hermione flings the review of Corban Yaxley’s book at Theo’s head, adding enough magic to her toss that the paper flutters, twists itself into a swan, and dives. 

You reach for your wand, already cringing away. Swans are the pretty arseholes of the bird kingdom, and this one seems to have been called into existence by the force of Hermione’s rage. It doesn’t bode well for Theo, but he banishes it with an annoyed wave of his wand that impresses you. That’s good magic, and he’s fast on his feet. All he says is, “Could you not?”

“She says it’s _brave_.” Hermione clearly has no intention of _not_ anything. You can’t blame her. It’s disgusting. “She says it’s a _brave examination of how good intentions get_… oh, I can’t even finish it. I’m going to be ill.”

Draco pushes a glass toward her. “Don’t,” he suggests. “It would be a waste of good whiskey.”

The look she gives him is not as malicious as you would have expected. It’s almost fond. So. Theo was right. That really is happening, not that either of them seems to want to admit it. You can’t blame them, you suppose. The school rumor mill would love that. You’re not sure who would get the worst of it. Would she be called a Death Eater’s whore, or would he get called Mudblood lover. Could go a lot of ways, you suppose, most of them bad. Still, you’re a little hurt they are keeping up this pretense even here, with whiskey and darkness and a door that doesn’t let just anyone in. If there’s any place on the school grounds they should feel safe, you’d think it would be here.

Of course, you and Theo aren’t exactly all over one another. That’s different, you tell yourself. It would be a dick move to be mauling each other what with Draco being your ex. Though, you aren’t really a couple in public. You don’t hold hands. You don’t sit together at meals. Hogwarts gossip might not know you are a pair, and that hurts. You move a little closer to him. You don’t want him to think you’re _ashamed_. Not ashamed. Not _hiding_. 

“I hate everything,” Hermione mutters.

“I don’t know what you expected.” Theo stretches out his long, long legs along the floor and brushes some of his hair out of his eyes. He’s never a properly neat aristocrat. His shirt tails are untucked, or his hair isn’t tidy. His vowels are everything your grandmother wants in your wife. And the casual sweep of his hand to grab his drink, that’s another piece of the puzzle. Half-prince, half-disaster. He’ll never be what your family wants.

Plus, there’s the dick thing.

“I expected people not to embrace the… the... the same exact people who _terrorized_ them.” Hermione is stammering in her rage and disgust. Feelings make her less articulate, less capable. “I expect people not to want to publish this… dreck. This... this…”

“It’ll make money,” Theo says, rescuing her from her own rage. “Draco, what rules the world?”

“Purity always conquers,” Draco says dryly. “So, I’m assuming single malt.”

“What _else_ rules the world?”

Draco sighs but provides the answer. “Money.”

“And there you have it.” Theo rolls on the couch so he’s facing her and the candle light catches across the lines of his face. You can never decide if he’s the best looking man you’ve ever seen or if he’s so plain he’s ugly. “Money, my dear Muggle girl, and magic. And most of us are pretty willing to overlook a shoddy magical background if you’ve got enough money.”

“Galleons clean up a pedigree,” Draco agrees.

“You’re both disgusting.”

“Granted,” Theo says. “But if you want to rule the world, you have to have backers. Supporters. And Yaxley’s only away for what… twenty years?”

“It wasn’t life?” You’re horrified. Now you need to go look it up. The Carrows got life, didn’t they? They had to have gotten life in Azkaban. Surely no one would let them back out into the world.

“He had a very good solicitor,” Theo says. “Because –“

“Money,” Hermione says sourly. 

“So, when he gets out, he’ll be nicely rehabilitated in the eyes of people who matter, and ready to try again.”

You can’t bear it. Not again. Not another one. Not _Yaxley_, who will still be young by wizarding standards in 20 years. And Theo is right. He’ll become a model citizen. He’ll write, and be released to do speaking tours. He’ll be inspirational. Oh, god. You can imagine them bringing him here, back into the school where he’d waged war last May, and letting him do a talk on being led astray, or some such. Oh, he’ll throw Voldemort under the bus. But he’ll stand up there, on some dais, and talk and talk and talk and in five years -- in ten -- people will listen. You can’t believe it happened now and _it happened to you_.

“No,” you say.

They all look at you. Theo is expectant. Draco curious. Hermione leans forward as if she doesn’t want to miss a word you have to say. It’s that feeling again. That feeling of being the leader. You lick your lips and think of Snape. He did terrible things to make sure the light won. You think of the way the Sword of Gryffindor felt in your hand. No one but a true son of your house could have wielded that, isn’t that what they say? And Gryffindors are _good_. And Hermione is right here, listening to you the same way she used to listen to Harry. This is a good idea. Good, good the way your parents were good. Good the way Hermione is good.

“You talked about it before,” you say, your eyes on Hermione. You’re feeling your way through this, because thinking a thing is not the same as doing it. Even talking isn’t doing, and what you have to be is active. But you don’t even have any idea how to do that. “We take over. We make sure Yaxley doesn’t get a platform. We make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“How?” Hermione’s practical. That’s good. It doesn’t give you any real ideas, though.

“You’re war heroes,” Draco says. “How hard can it be to turn that into power?”

“Well, Harry hasn’t managed it,” you say.

Hermione mutters something that might have been, “Or Ron,” but you decide not to pursue that.

“Potter doesn’t like attention,” Draco says. “He wants to be ordinary.”

Well, that’s certainly true. Why was it the extraordinary never recognized themselves?

“Start with an interview,” Theo says. “You and Hermione. Talk about your passion for public service. Imply you’re a couple.”

You look at him, surprised by that, and he shrugs. “Wizards like babies,” he says. “Your _grandmother_ likes babies. A mental image of you and Granger here in a white dress, looking wholesome, sells more papers than you shirtless and me sucking you off.”

“Actually,” Hermione says, then falls silent. Theo raises his brows and a small, real smile comes onto his face, and you can feel your skin get hot. This was not how you expected this to go.

“I know a reporter,” Draco says. He sounds a little embarrassed by that. “I bet if I sent her a tip I heard you two talking about wanting to do an interview, she’d be in the floo before McGonagall could say no.”

Hermione raises her glass to you. “To victory,” she says.

. . . . . . . . . .

_My dearest Hermione,_

_I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but a little bird whispered in my ear that you and that dashing Neville Longbottom might be interested in getting out your side of the story. What was it like to be at Hogwarts during the war, or be a Muggle-born like yourself. The fear of being on the run. The bravery of going back to Hogwarts. The wrench of being dumped by that Ronald. Harry is a dear, dear boy, but his story’s a little overexposed now, and I would die to have first dibs on your exclusive story. There could be a book in this for you!_

_Send me an owl confirming bygones are bygones and I’ll be up in a trice!_

_Rita!_

Draco read the letter, then passed it back to Hermione. “I thought you dumped him,” he said.

“That’s your main takeaway?” Hermione asked.

She nudged him with one foot, and he laughed and rolled over so he was on top of her again, hands bracing against the bed, knees pressing her legs apart. She wasn’t really upset. Her eyes weren’t pulled together. Her mouth wasn’t tipped down. He kissed first one side of that mouth, then the other. “The rest of it is her usual blather. I’m a soul sucking parasite. I want to bleed you dry for my career. We’re best friends.”

This time it was Hermione who laughed. “We’re going to take her for such a ride,” she said. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

Draco didn’t want to think about Rita Skeeter, or watching Hermione stand next to Neville and imply the pair of them were the bright and shining post-war future the sorts of brain dead housewives who believed Skeeter would want to read about. He wanted not to think at all, and the woman under him was more than willing to go a second round so he could lose himself in her. Which he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the amazing OlivieBlake for beta reading this for me!


	16. Chapter 16

“So.” Rita Skeeter’s voice carried across the room, which was both annoying and useful. Draco had positioned himself in one of the library windows, back slouched against the wall, head down over a wholly unremarkable book on advanced potion theory. If anyone checked, he was studying for his exams like a good little Death Eater child, out on the goodwill of the Ministry, eager to redeem his family’s legacy. He certainly wasn’t eavesdropping on the conversation his

girlfriend?

lover?

worthless Gryffindor classmate was having with a reporter and his

ex-lover?

fellow conspirator?

undeniably heroic classmate. 

He was just sitting here. Minding his own business. Studying the ways adding rosemary to various tinctures and brews altered the results. He certainly wasn’t scowling at the way Hermione curved against Neville’s side with seemingly unconscious ease. She’d worn white, too. Winter white his mother would have called it, meaning more of a subtle cream. No school robes here. She looked adult, and charming, and very, very poised. The dress didn’t scream ‘bride,’ but it certainly whispered it. It made him unreasonably angry. Hermione had no business draping herself over Neville as if they were a couple. It wasn’t fair to Theo, who was in the research section of the library, on the other side of the interview, conscientiously making notes about historic rune usage. Theo shouldn’t have to see his significant other pretending to be in a relationship just to fool some damn reporter.

“One of the things that I think has gotten lost as we’ve struggled to return to a normal way of life is the immense sacrifices people like Neville made.” Hermione’s voice was confident without being pushy. Convincing without being unlikeable. She smiled at Rita with utter confidence that the reporter would want to hear what she had to say – would agree with her – and it worked.

“I would love to do a whole series on what it was like at Hogwarts,” Rita said. “I think our audience would just eat it up.” Her dicta-quill scratched away, floating in the air next to her pad. “Young Neville Longbottom, scion of an ancient and pure house – note to photography department: find photo of Augusta when she was young and beautiful to run next to this couple – you don’t mind if I take your picture, do you?”

It was a good thing they didn’t mind, because she pulled a camera out of her bag and pointed it at them. The flash was bright -- too bright -- and exploded with a sound that made Draco twitch. He could see Neville flinched too, and Hermione. Rita didn’t seem to notice. “A young couple like you, so pretty – you’ve really grown into that hair, Miss Granger – just sells so much more than any dreary recitation of policy.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione said politely. “I do hope your readers might look just a little bit at the text though. Neville did such amazing things.”

“I’m sure,” Rita said. “Where was I? Scion of an ancient and pure house, led an underground rebellion – no, call it a revolution – at Hogwarts. Tell me about that, Neville.” She leaned forward and touched his arm. “What did you do?”

“It was a terrible time,” Hermione said, so seriously Draco wanted to laugh. Not only was there no way she could fucking well know that, she sounded like the sonorous introduction of a bad article. Rita Skeeter’s pen didn’t stop scratching, though. “The Carrows, horrible people and dedicated servants of Voldemort –”

“Cut that,” Rita said. “Call him You Know Who.” Hermione frowned and she added, “Sells better. People are still scared.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “They tortured students here at Hogwarts.”

“No,” Rita breathed out, exhilarated in a way wholly predictable and just as disgusting.

“Oh yes,” Neville said. “Dark curses. Whips.” He lowered his voice, but Draco could still hear him. This was practically a performance. “_Unforgiveables.”_

“Note to photography,” Rita said, and her pen dutifully took down her dictation. “Find a stock photo of chains and whips. Check with Francis down in editing. He probably has a few. Go on, darling.”

It clearly took Neville a moment to realize that last bit was directed at him. He took a breath and Draco could see him trying to remember where he’d been. “Most of what we did was brew potions and use them to keep people as whole as we could.”

“While you waited for Harry Potter,” Rita said.

Neville’s mouth twitched a little. “In the end, yes, but at the time –“

“They were so scared, of course,” Hermione said, cutting him off. “There was no way to communicate back and forth, and people here at Hogwarts had no idea what Harry and Ron and I were doing. They had to try to fight back against the Death Eaters while they were surrounded by them.” She leaned even more closely against Neville. “They were very brave.”

“And you had so few allies,” Rita said. “McGonagall, of course.”

“Snape, too,” Neville said. “We all thought he was a monster, but in the end, he was working for the light.”

“It’s hard to know who the real monsters are,” Hermione said.

“That’s why we’re looking to go into public service,” Neville said. “Between Hermione’s experience with Harry, and mine here at Hogwarts, we think we can really make a difference in the Ministry. Ensure there’s no monsters hiding behind the drapes, so to speak.”

“Politics, then,” Rita said with delight.

“Politics,” Hermione agreed.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Again, Mr. Longbottom?” The drawl is cruel and the eyes raking over Neville’s school robes even crueler. “Your robes are too short. Five points from Gryffindor.”

“I,” you begin to say.

“I am not interested in your excuses, Mr. Longbottom,” Snape says. Professor Snape. Headmaster Snape. Monster Snape. His hair hangs lankly down beside a face with skin too sallow and a nose too long. It’s as if nature took the ugliest form of every feature and combined them into one man, and you hated it when he was your teacher. You hate it more now that he runs this hell called a school. “Do you agree there are certain standards a young man should meet?”

There’s only one answer to that. “Yes,” you say. Your back hurts. You’re almost out of plants you need and you’ve been refusing healing potions to make sure first and second years don’t go without.

“And yet you’ve never quite measured up, have you?” Snape goes on. Alecto Carrow behind you is squirming with delight. You can hear her breathing get faster, and she’s rubbing her palms together in anticipation. Will Snape beat you? _Crucio_ you? She’s dragged you up here because you’re recalcitrant. Because she doesn’t dare do too much. Because you have a grandmother and a bloodline and _every drop of magical blood is valuable_.

Good thing you bounced when they dropped you out that window.

Good thing you’re the only thing that matters. Magical.

“I have not,” you say. Another expected answer. You meet Snape’s eyes and they bore into you. His face is set in cold, ugly lines, and his eyes won’t let you go.

“How many chances should I give you, Mr. Longbottom, before we decide you’re simply not worth it?”

You shrug.

“Disrespectful,” Alecto hisses from behind you.

“Yes,” Snape says. “Five more points from Gryffindor. Alecto. Go. I will handle this personally. Privately.”

She cackles. She leaves. You brace yourself and Snape sinks back into his chair and, for a moment, looks miserable. Then he picks up a quill and begins to write a list. “Go into the Forbidden Forest and find these plants,” he says. “Surely even a pathetic excuse for a wizard such as yourself can manage that.”

“And if not?” you ask.

He looks at you again. “Do not fail, Mr. Longbottom. No matter what we do, we must not fail. Do you understand me?”

You don’t.

You didn’t.

You think you might now.

. . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a letter_

_… sleeping with Neville. That is none of your business. It’s none of your business who I date, who I have sex with, who I talk to. I could be sleeping with _Draco Malfoy_ and it wouldn’t be any concern of yours, and I suggest if you want to remain friends, you never ask me anything along those lines again._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

“Could you two stop pretending you’re not fucking?” Theo asked.

Draco’s brain froze. His hand was still holding the bottle of whatever it was Theo had liberated from his manor’s cache of old and expensive liquor. His body, which had been neatly pouring the liquid gold into heavy tumblers, went right on acting like everything was normal, but his brain just stopped. He couldn’t say anything in response.

Hermione didn’t seem to have that problem. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her voice so cold he could have dropped it in the glasses to chill the booze.

“We all know you two are going at it,” Theo said. “Draco comes back to our room reeking of sex, and you look less wound up, so I know you’re getting some.”

“Christ, you’re an asshole.”

“It’s just rude,” Theo said. Draco turned and handed him a glass. His mind was still numb. This might be classic Theodore, but he hadn’t expected it turned on him. Not here. Not the day Rita Skeeter’s article came out, and certainly not after he’d spent the whole day overhearing giggles as the Hogwarts gossip machine speculated about Hermione and Neville. Neville, who had a hand on Theo’s thigh with unconscious ease. “If we’re sitting up here in this misbegotten corner of the castle, planning insurrection,” Theo went on, “you shouldn’t be pretending you aren’t a couple.”

“We aren’t,“ Draco began, but Theo cut him off.

“You are,” he said. “And I get why you aren’t all the fuck over each other in public. You’ll get it from each end. The blood snobs will hate her - ”

“True enough,” Hermione muttered.

“ – and everyone else will hate you.”

“They already do.”

“And it’s not like I’m fucking thrilled to watch Neville carry her goddamn books to class – “

“I’m not doing that,” Neville interrupted. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“I can carry my own books,” Hermione said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Theo said. “I’m talking here. I get that we’re playing up the heroic couple angle for the press. And it worked.”

Draco supposed it had. It didn’t mean he liked it.

Theo tossed the most recent _Daily Prophet_ down, and it landed with the photograph of Neville and Hermione facing up. She was leaning into him and smiling, her mouth curving up in a warm, inviting way it never did for him. He’d avoided reading the piece. Hadn’t wanted to see that picture with her lips turning up again and again in a wizarding photograph for everyone in Britain to see, for everyone to interpret.

“God,” Hermione said. “I look so fake.”

“You look like a woman in love,” Theo agreed. “If politics doesn’t work out, try acting.”

“Lousy money,” Hermione said. She picked up the paper and studied herself as Draco handed a glass to Neville first, then her. She took it without looking at him, sipping without stopping to sniff at the contents. “I think I’ll stick with insurrection.”

Draco sat next to her, not quite touching. Certainly not pressing his leg up against hers the way Neville and Theo sat. Not setting a hand on her without fear she’d shove it off. 

“Just… when we’re here,” Theo said, “Could you two cut the crap?”

Hermione set her drink down with a thunk, followed by a sploosh as the alcohol slid in a wave up one side of the glass and out onto the floor. Draco opened his mouth to say _alcohol abuse_ like a mindless automaton when she slid a hand along the back of his neck, pulling that mouth to hers. Her tongue brushed lightly against his, and his cock sprang to attention because, apparently, he had no say in the matter. He sat, trying to will himself to be unresponsive, because this was just about showing Theo she wouldn’t be intimidated. He didn’t want to seem into it; didn’t want to let anyone see how much he wanted her, or how much it _hurt_ that it was nothing but sex. He wanted to take her back to the Manor and show her all the hidden spots in the gardens where he’d played as a child; he wanted to fasten a necklace around her throat, some pretty gem to glitter in the light; he wanted to hold her hand in the Great Hall and be public. He wanted to be public for real, like an actual couple, like people who liked one another. Not like this. Not a little performance to make Theo shut up.

“I hope he’s a better kisser when you’re alone,” Theo said after she pulled away. Draco was going to kill him. Once they were back in their room, alone, he was going to kill him, and then dump the body back where Filch’s was. “Never seen a man so uptight.”

“If you want to find out what he’s like in private,” Hermione said tartly, “kiss him yourself.”

It was as good as a fuck you, and Draco let out a shuddering breath. She wasn’t thrilled with Theo’s complaints either, and that felt… good. That felt like they agreed about something. He risked putting an arm around her, tugging her a little bit closer, and she didn’t resist. In fact, she leaned against his side, then lay down so his thighs made a pillow for her head, and closed her eyes. He set a hand against her hair, and wrapped one curl around and around his finger, twining and untwining it. The candlelight split the brown to a thousand different hues of warmth, and he thought he could spend forever listing off all the different shades that made up Hermione Granger.

“If we could get back to the insurrection bit,” he said, “And not my sex life, what next?”

“Insurrection being infinitely more interesting than your sex life,” Theo said. “Based on that display.”

“I know where you sleep.”

“And you don’t have a wand. Plan to smother me with a pillow?”

“If I have to.”

“Next, we take the Ministry,” Hermione said. “Obviously.”

“How?” Draco asked.

“We get someone to nominate Neville for Minister,” she said. “Right after exams. No one will vote against him.”

_Someone_ seemed awfully vague, and there were a lot of steps between where they were now and finding someone willing to nominate a man barely out of school for the most powerful position in the county. And Draco could imagine a lot of people willing to vote against him. He kept playing with her curl rather than vocalizing any objections because this was so impossible there wasn’t any point even talking about it.

“Not me,” Neville said. “You.”

Hermione lifted her head out of Draco’s lap and looked at him. Neville shrugged a little uncomfortably, then said, “It’s better PR, right? The Muggle born, Harry Potter’s sidekick, dawn of a new era. Hogwarts resistance leader doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

“You’re a pureblood,” Hermione said. “Won’t that go down easier?” But Draco could hear the hunger in her voice. She wanted this.

“Who cares what the Wizengamot thinks?” Neville asked. “They turned a blind eye to Voldemort.”

“Well, we have to care what they think if we plan to get them to vote for Granger here,” Theo pointed out. “A nomination isn’t that hard, but a majority of them have to want her enough to vote her in.”

Neville took a deep breath. “We don’t have to care what they think if we use the Imperius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thank yous to OlivieBlake for beta reading and to you, gentle reader, for giving me the gift of your time.


	17. Chapter 17

“If we use the _what_?” Hermione’s voice was filled with all sorts of judgement. Draco could feel his body closing in, wrapping around itself, protecting him from that disgust. The _imperius_ was unforgivable. And he’d done it. More than once.

Neville ran a hand through his hair. Draco recognized the gesture. It was nerves, but also willingness to step into the line of fire. Neville probably didn’t realize he did it, but before he sidled up to Alecto and distracted her from whatever first year she’d latched onto, there was that hand in his hair. He brushed his fringe out of his eyes before saying that Muggle-borns didn’t steal magic. He tucked hair behind his ear before standing up to be an example in a class on _crucio_. That kind of strength still left him shocked anyone like Neville had ever given him the time of day. “I’m not saying it’s a good thing,” he hedged.

Hermione’s glare didn’t soften.

“I just don’t think we’re going to get the results we want from reason.” Neville sighed, “No one wants to admit things are going to repeat.”

“They are,” Hermione said.

“But if we argue that, they’ll just tell us we’re kind, that we’re traumatized, that we should let the adults handle it,” Neville said. “We can cut through all of that with one spell.”

“One spell cast multiple times,” Theo said. “And Miss Purity here is going to have to do some of it, because you know and I know no one’s letting Draco or me in the Ministry.”

“We can go tour,” Neville said. “Say hullo to Harry, visit a bunch of members of the Wizengamot. We want to get into politics, remember?”

Hermione set her jaw. “I don’t know how,” she said, “And it’s not like I can go find instructions in the library.”

Draco could feel Neville’s eyes on him. People knew when they were being stared at. His shoulders twitched, and he had to force his head not to turn to look. “I can show you,” he said, so softly the words almost got lost. Almost, but not quite. Hermione spun to face him, her hair whipping across his skin. “You know I cast it on Katie,” he said. He didn’t mention the other times. So many. _Imperio_. I order. I command. Same root word as imperial. As empire. As emperor. “It’s not that hard.”

“It’s _necessary,” _Neville said.

“We’re not going to compel people to go out on some kind of murder spree,” Theo said. “Just… votes for you.”

Hermione closed her eyes, then said, “For the greater good.” It was almost a laugh, but not a funny one. “Fine. Show me.”

“I’ll need a wand.” Draco had learned to a do a lot of things wandlessly since his trial. Since his world had set him free to live, but only as a man with half his skills torn away. He could summon sheets of paper, make a feather float, stir a potion. He couldn’t capture another person’s will without a tool, though, so he held his hand out, waiting.

Hermione hesitated, then put her wand in his palm. His fingers almost convulsed around it. It wasn’t his. Nothing was _his_, but it was better than no wand at all, and he’d used it before, so it was familiar at least.

“It’s wrong they took your wand,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I’m a war criminal.” Draco took a deep breath, pointed Hermione’s own wand at her, and slid the word out over his tongue. “_Imperio.”_

It felt sticky. He remembered his aunt casting it on him the first time. _It’s the best way to learn,_ she’d said, though he doubted she had ever let anyone take her will away. His brain had become wrapped in cobwebs, as if he were tired. It felt the same from the other end. _Crucio_ sliced your lips on the way out, candy that was too sour but that you wanted again as soon as the burn wore off. _Imperio _stuck to you, and you wanted to wipe it away. “Theo,” Draco said, holding onto Hermione’s mind, “get me a bit of paper, would you?”

The paper was duly handed over, and he scrawled out his command, then folded it up and passed it back to Theo. He left the compulsion deep in Hermione’s brain, tucked away behind fears she wasn’t good enough and the rules for femininity she half-hated, half-coveted. Then he pulled away and handed the wand back to her. “Did you feel it?” he asked.

She shook her head a little, and he knew she was trying to clear the cobweb feeling out. “You could have ordered me to do anything,” she said.

“How lucky for you my tastes run to willing partners,” Draco said. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to trust anyone who used this to force any kind of intimacy. Ordering murder was one thing. That was… another, and a line he wouldn’t ever cross.

She hit him on the arm. “I could do it,” she admitted, and Draco rolled his eyes. One of the more difficult curses; you had to have a knack for finding people’s weaknesses and using them, and she acted like being able to pick it up was child’s play. Plenty of people couldn’t ever do it well enough to matter.

He didn’t like to think too closely what it meant that he’d always been good at it.

“But, I don’t see how this helps us,” Hermione went on. “I can’t exactly go around keeping a grip on the mind of every member of the Wizengamot.”

“You’ll see,” Draco said.

She snorted, then put a hand out. “Neville, pass me the paper, would you?”

With a shrug, Neville did as she asked. She flipped through the pages as Draco watched in silence, squinting at the lettering by candlelight, and finally casting a_ lumos_ so she could see more clearly. “I think I’ll send this poached pears recipe to Harry,” she said, and started to carefully rip out the section of the page with the recipes and household tips. “He likes pears.”

“Theo,” Draco said. “Would you read what I wrote down while Hermione was under the _Imperius_?”

Theo unfolded the parchment and read in a carefully neutral voice, “Find a dessert recipe in _The Daily Prophet_ and save it for Potter.”

Hermione looked down at the half torn out recipe in her hand. Draco could see the color drain from her cheeks even in the dimly lit room. 

“Exactly,” he said softly. “And you thought it was your own idea. But would you ever normally send Potter a recipe?”

“No.” Her voice shook. “Not ever.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a letter_

_… it’s really great of you to arrange the meet and greets at the Ministry for me and Neville. I don’t want to ask McGonagall – I think she has her hands full this year. I never really appreciated how much work Headmaster Dumbledore did. If I’m being really honest, I thought your hero worship of him was a bit over the top. But now that everything is settling down and I have the space to think about how much he did,I find I feel more and more sympathy for him. Maturity, I suppose. And it’s not like either of us had time to even breathe the last few years. _

_I’m enclosing a recipe for poached pears I found in the same _Daily Prophet_ that had Rita Skeeter’s interview with Neville and me. Can you believe she found that old photograph of his grandmother to run with it? She was beautiful back in her day, wasn’t she? Give Ginny my…_

. . . . . . . . . .

Your eyes are closed and you’re counting your breaths. It’s cold in the tower. Open arches let in winter light and air and stars and there’s only so much a warming charm can do—and besides, Theo’s mouth on you is making it hard to keep the air heated.

“Focus,” he says softly, and you curl your fingers back into the stone wall, nails digging into mortar, scraping blood free. “If it gets cold, I stop.”

Holy god and shit and fuck and what is that charm?

A puff of hot air billows across the room, and for a moment it’s August. Not the charm you were trying to remember. You gasp out another, and this time the rocks begin to radiate a steady, pleasant heat. Still not the one you wanted. Theo laughs. “I guess that works,” he says, and his tongue is curling around the underside of your cock and you will do anything to keep him from stopping but for once, life is good, and he doesn’t

he doesn’t

he doesn’t

and your hands are smearing blood in his dark hair because you can’t keep them off his head. You’re holding onto him and dying and living and everything is good, and you sag into completion.

He wipes his mouth and you sink down. He’s on his knees still. You’re leaning against the wall. You cup his face in your hand. Is this what love looks like? Unguarded eyes and a smile.

“That was some pretty impressive wandless magic you had going on,” he says. “Don’t think I could have done that.”

Your laugh is hoarse. “I had motivation,” you say.

He leans against the wall next to you. You wish you could bring him up to Gryffindor, face down the looks, the murmurs of _I thought he and Granger.._. Playing couple with her seemed like a smart idea, but now you don’t know.

“I plan to keep you motivated,” he says.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione wrote the suggestion she’d implanted down, folded the paper, and released her hold on Draco Malfoy’s mind. He shook his head, then rubbed at his eyes. “You felt more sure this time,” he said. “Quieter.” 

“I’m so proud,” she said dryly. “I’m getting better at being evil.”

He caught her hand in his. “It’s not evil,” he said. He’d seen evil. He’d felt evil. Hell, he’d passed evil the salt at the dinner table. Evil had red eyes and a sneering laugh and a thick neck. Evil didn’t bathe often enough. Evil was a lot of things, but it wasn’t Hermione Granger, asking herself whether this was right. Evil didn’t have soft brown curls, or parents she still missed. “It’s not _good_, exactly,” he admitted. “But intention matters.”

“If you say something about omelets and breaking eggs,” she warned, “I might throw something at you.”

Draco laughed. “Was that today’s suggestion?” 

The first time they’d practiced this, she’d compelled him to ask a question in History of Magic about the goblin uprisings, which had earned him several hostile looks from fellow students and a glint of what might have been approval from poor, dead Professor Binns, who had proceeded to lecture the class in detail on the myriad injustices goblins laid at the feet of wizards. The second time, she’d given him a burning urge to drink mint tea with honey, and he’d only realized that had to be the curse when he was wheedling honey out of a very annoyed house elf at three in the morning. He’d claimed he had a sore throat and she’d relented, but the next day he’d been summoned to the Infirmary and poked at by Madam Pomfrey for twenty minutes, before being forced to drink a bitter concoction that would have made any sore throat worse.

He’d managed to refrain from asking why this year even a hint of illness got him ordered to the Infirmary, when last year students had gone to class with blood on their faces and professors pretended not to see.

“You think I’d make you talk about eggs?” Hermione asked.

Draco shrugged. It could be anything. Each time her touch had gotten lighter, and if she could compel him, most members of the Wizengamot would be easy. He had a natural talent for Occlumency, or so his aunt had told him, and that made it harder to use _Imperio_ on him. Not impossible, obviously. Just harder. He doubted the well-fed and well-dressed members of the august wizarding parliament had learned to hide their thoughts from a monster in their teens. “Let me rub your shoulders while I wait for today’s hassle,” he said.

She scooted over to him, more obliging than he would have expected her to be, and he pressed his thumbs into her neck, beginning to knead them up and down. She’d worn her hair up, but one freedom-loving curl had escaped the twist and tickled his nose as he worked. “Honestly,” he muttered the third time he tried to shove it back in with the rest. “Your hair.”

“You’re good at this,” she said.

He couldn’t imagine why. He’d never done it before. Pansy sniffed her disdain when boys offered to rub her shoulders. _I know perfectly well you’re just trying to get my shirt off_, he’d heard her say to Vincent –

(Don’t think about Vincent. Smell of burning hair. Smell of burning flesh. The screaming. Oh, god, the scre –)

– _And, besides, Mum and I go see a massage therapist whenever I’m home._

“I should feel guilty,” Hermione said. She handed him the paper with what she’d inserted into his head, and he stopped the massage to open it.

_Rub Hermione’s shoulders_

“You _witch_,” he said. He didn’t like that. She was good at this. Better, maybe, then he was, but it made him uncomfortable to know how deeply she was able to slide into his mind. What did she know about him now? It wasn’t like Legilimency. He’d been told that was more like looking at a play, seeing exactly what happened. A deft touch with _imperio_ required wiggling an idea into a person’s emotions so it felt real to them. Just slap an order on top of a mind and the person acted strangely, like a sleepwalker. People noticed that. Give them a reason to do it and it would flow naturally from all their other actions.

“Well, now you know me,” he said sourly. He pulled himself away from her and crossed the room. He needed to move. To get away from being seen. To get away from a woman who’d violated something he couldn’t even articulate.

“Maybe a little,” she said. “It’s only fair.”

Draco didn’t care all that much about fairness. “I think we’re done,” he said. “You know as much as I can teach you.” 

He didn’t look back when he opened the door and let himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to OlivieBlake, who continues to deal with my hatred of all things comma and who convinced me to add parentheses.


	18. Chapter 18

You can feel how tight your smile is when you walk through the Ministry halls. The place is so banal. So unexceptional. You want everything around you to have some sign that this is the seat of power, some sense of grandeur. Instead, it mostly feels grubby. Sure, there’s magic. Memos fly above your head, sailing their way from one department to another. But people are still people. You overhear two witches caught up in a vehement argument about the quality of the muffins that someone named Selina had brought to a meeting.

The muffins were bad, but _how_ bad was the issue.

You wish you’d shined your shoes. Your grandmother would take one look at you and sniff that you don’t look right. That you don’t look _presentable._

_There are standards, Neville. Look at me. I take pride in my appearance. Your father always pressed his shirts. Always shined his shoes. I was always proud of your father._

Your father would have been better at this. Better than you.

Hermione is nervous, you can tell. Her shoulders are a little too stiff, and the click of her low heels on the marble floor a little too staccato. You doubt anyone here will notice. Harry, maybe, who greeted her with a hug and you with an awkward hand shake and who is now walking beside you, leading you to meet with members of the Wizengamot. You and Hermione want to go into politics. You want to meet with current leaders. Maybe talk to a few people about internships and career paths.

Maybe steal a little of their free will.

Your grandmother would be pleased with Hermione. Will be. Was. _Who is the girl in the Prophet article?,_ she wrote to ask. _Are you two good friends? Perhaps she’d like to come visit over the Easter holiday? _You wonder what Hermione would consider the right clothes for visiting a pureblood matriarch whose son you are not sleeping with, who you are not dating, who you will not marry. She picked a neat skirt for this day, simple and black and maybe a little too Muggle, but, then again, maybe not. It’s not like people are going to forget her background. Not Harry Potter’s Muggle-born friend. Her jumper is tight across her breasts, and she’s pinned a little Gryffindor brooch to it. Your eyes keep going to her curves, dragged there by the glitter of the pin, and you can’t remember her ever wearing jewellery before. Maybe tight things like that are a Muggle fashion. You have no idea. You’ve hardly ever been in Muggle London – certainly not to stay – and when you are, you aren’t staring at girls.

Your grandmother would like the hat, at least. That you’re sure of. Tall and black and pointed, with a pair of ribbons that trail down her back. Her curls poof out at the sides and she looks gloriously like a witch.

A witch in a tight jumper.

“Most of these people are pretty boring,” Harry is saying. “I mean, I don’t see why you want to talk to them.”

“I just want to research who I should be applying to work for,” Hermione says primly and Harry laughs. It’s such a Hermione thing to say Neville almost believes it’s true. It’s so much more plausible than what you’re really planning, though Harry is more than right about how dull the politicians are. The first spends most of their meeting staring at Hermione’s chest as she talks about her passion for creature rights.

“You get him?” you ask in an undertone as you walk to the next office.

“Piece of cake,” she says just as quietly.

The second knows your grandmother and pumps your hand while ignoring Hermione. “Maybe we could talk about Hermione’s interest in politics over dinner with Gran,” you say, and the man looks at Hermione as if he’s surprised she’s still there.

“Young love,” he says, slapping you on the back. He hits a spot Alecto caught with her whip too many times, and you have to hide your flinch. Some things never heal quite right.

The third is no better, and by the seventh – and last, thank god – you’ve grown to hate them all. These were the people running your country? These paper-pushing, jumper-staring, blowhards who are most eager for the photo session at the end of your day? Who want their day in the sun next to the Hogwarts hero and the Chosen One’s friend? No wonder the Ministry fell. No wonder no one fought back from within these halls.

“What’s the pension plan like?” Hermione asks as Rita Skeeter arranges you in a carefully composed candid photograph.

“Excellent,” says a witch with ruffles on her sleeves and a taste for embroidery. “You’re never financially unstable if you work for the government.”

“Unless you get fired,” someone adds.

“Which almost never happens,” the witch says. “Just keep your head down and do the work.”

“Okay everyone,” Rita says, “Look this way. We’re going to take several just to make sure no one has a silly face, but let’s aim for all of them being good. And a little closer together, please. If you stand the normal distance apart in the photos you’ll look like you can’t stand each other.”

Everyone laughs and pushes closer together. You can smell onions from lunch on the breath of the man beside you, and you smile for the camera as if you don’t hate everyone here.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Could you pass the slugs,” Draco said. Just stir. Just chop. If he stirred and chopped and made the potion he wouldn’t have to think about the witch standing near him, about the taste of her skin, about the feel of her hands on him.

About the feel of his hands, kneading down into her shoulders, working out tension, compelled by her curse.

Hermione passed the bowl of fat, sticky slugs over and Draco picked out two, lay them on the cutting board, and began to slice them into neat potions. He was good at this. He knew how to do this, and it didn’t require a wand. He didn’t have to ask permission to excel here. He wasn’t cut off from everything that made him a wizard here, wasn’t muted and muffled and muzzled.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” she said.

“I’m pleased to see you two getting along,” Professor Slughorn said, slouched down in his chair, popping bits of some sweet or other into his mouth. “No more hostility like you had at the beginning of the year, eh?”

“No, sir,” Hermione said. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Draco chopped.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a letter of recommendation_

_… nearly the highest praise I can heap on a student. She’s hard working, clever, and that Headmaster Dumbledore made her a prefect speaks to his assessment of her character and dependability. She’s always been a bit of a follower rather than a leader, but given she chose to follow Harry Potter one can hardly fault her for that. She has applied herself to her seventh year at Hogwarts with such vigor you cannot tell she lost a year to the War from her academic work. I anticipate she will have the highest of N.E.W.T. scores._

_I am somewhat concerned that she, like a handful of her peers, has been deeply affected by the War in ways that do not appear in her records. On paper, she is an excellent student and she has no disciplinary history to suggest any sort of problem. However, she has …_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Days are passing. Winter ticks its way to spring, and flowers fight their way out of the frozen earth to defy the cold. The sun tells the same lies as every year, and you push your way out into the air, expecting to be warmed by the light, only to shiver at winter’s lingering winds.

You spend the Easter break with your grandmother, avoiding personal questions about Hermione, dwelling on her talents as a witch. It’s easier to sing praises of her spell-work than to admit you have no interest in whether her hips can easily pass out babies.

You miss Theo.

You miss him as you hold onto a glass of wine for Easter dinner. You miss him as Hermione laughs at the ponderous opinions of one member of the Wizengamot and pretends to listen to another. Her eyes get momentarily blank as she talk to them, and her fingers twitch the wand tucked into a pocket of her wholly appropriate Easter dress.

Well, you assume it’s appropriate.

The dinner isn’t a failure. Seven more members of the august ruling body fall to Hermione’s skill with the _imperius. _Two fall to you. You smile and raise your glass as your grandmother toasts, “The next generation.”

God, you hope she means you and not the babies three people asked Hermione about. You expected her to scream that she wasn’t even twenty yet, that she still woke from nightmares about the war, that she isn’t ready for nappies yet.

That nappies are one way to cut women out of public life.

Instead she just smiles with so much modest charm you want to laugh, especially when one of the Wizengamot says, “Hear, hear,” and licks his lips as he eyes her. What part of that man’s brain did she implant her compulsion to vote for her? His fascination with her tits? His exhaustion with the business of governance? His desire to not seem like a misogynistic dinosaur?

It doesn’t matter.

You drink the wine. You eat the ham. You miss Theo. You pass the salt. Your grandmother has decorated with charmed eggs. “They tell your future,” she says, and everyone laughs with the good-natured ease of the privileged and the mildly intoxicated. Nothing bad has ever happened. Nothing bad will ever happen.

The first person to crack open her eggs claps her hands in delight as a tiny bird emerges, flies around her head three times, then disappears back into non-existence. It’s an amazing bit of charm work, and you know your grandmother would have done it herself. She likes to keep her hand in, as she puts it.

The second egg releases bright red sparkles, like a tiny firecracker. The third a cloud that rains over one of the candles before settling down to sulk next to its broken shell.

Hermione’s releases a golden band with a diamond. Everyone coos.

Yours spits forth a black, oily cloud. “That’s peculiar,” your grandmother says with a frown. “The charm must be a dud. Take another one, Neville.”

The second one is the same.

Your grandmother changes the subject and for the rest of the night everyone talks Quidditch and you miss Theo.

. . . . . . . . . .

She screamed. Was screaming. Wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound sliced through the air, and left wounds, and Draco had to help her – had to – but he can’t move. A good person would help. A good person would make this stop. She screamed again and his feet remain locked together, glued to the floor, stuck 

(Also, he was naked, and so far, his aunt hadn’t noticed.)

Someone dragged Ron Weasley away, and he reached back, his arm desperately stretched out towards the girl on the floor. “Take me,” he begged, but your aunt only has eyes for the mudblood.

“Don’t use that word.” Dumbledore leaned up against the wall. God. Why was that old coot always around when you didn’t want him, never when you did.

“Fine,” Draco said. He can play nice, even with Ministry lackeys. “The Muggle-born.”

“Better,” Dumbledore said, and then he fell backward, dropping away and Draco was alone again. Alone with Hermione and his aunt and Ronald Weasley.

Weasley met his eyes. “This is all your fault,” he said. “I hope you burn in hell, Malfoy, right next to Crabbe.”

. . . . . . . . .

Theo’s mouth is on your palm, his tongue going in slow, lazy circles as his deft fingers unbutton your cuff and begin to roll your sleeve up one neat turn at a time. “Have I ever told you,” he says, “how I used to stare at you in the Dining Hall?”

“The fat little loser?” you ask. It was what Pansy Parkinson called you, after all. Funny how people sighed and spat and hurled so many things at you over the years and only some of them stuck. All of them _hurt_, but some still rise up to taunt you when you stare at yourself in the mirror. 

_Not as good as his father was, more’s the pity, but at least he isn’t a squib._

_You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders. _

_Fat little loser_.

Theo laughs, and traces a single finger across your stomach. A thousand hairs stand on end. Your cock twitches. “Fat?” he asks.

“I was.” A year of torture and fear turned out to be one hell of a weight loss program.

He presses his mouth down to the planes of your waist. “Not fat,” he says, “And even if you were, wouldn’t matter.”

You don’t want to scoff, but you can’t dismiss that Draco Malfoy showed up, willing to suck you off, once the fat dropped away. Theo Nott too. Some hint of that derision must have leaked out of your pores, because Theo lifts his head and looks at you very seriously. “Your abs weren’t what led a resistance, Neville.”

“Yeah?”

He slides a hand up your arm, feeling the hard muscles under your shirt. Hogwarts hadn’t really allowed for sloth even before you were carrying people back to recovery rooms. Even before you were lifting swords above your head. “I like these arms,” he says, and you roll your eyes. His hand tightens, making you look back again. “They aren’t why I like you.”

God, you’re so pathetic, needing reassurances like this. “It’s fine,” you say. You want to just get back to the sex part. Sex is easy. Sex doesn’t risk flaying your heart open.

Theo, however, is not done. “You were always interesting,” he says. “From first year when Dumbledore gave you extra points for standing up to your friends.”

You smile a little at that. Years later and that moment still feels good. “Stole the cup out from under you,” you say.

“You’re _good_, Neville. You do the right things even when they aren’t easy. You stand up to people. You stand up for people. How can anyone not want to warm themselves at your light.”

“The abs don’t hurt,” you mutter. This is excruciating. You want him to shut up. You want him to talk all night.

“No,” he admits, and your heart squeezes shut as he presses his mouth back to those abs, then to the scars at your wrists. He runs a thumb over the ridged tissue, white and knotted, then his tongue. His breath is hot on your skin when he adds, “But they aren’t what matters. They aren’t _you_, Neville. These are you.”

Your jaw is tight, and your eyes are burning and this is too raw. Too _honest_.

“And this too,” he says, and his hands are at your trousers, his mouth on your cock, and he’s wet, and warm, and this… this, you don’t want to ever stop.

. . . . . . . . .

Lucius Malfoy used to be welcome in the Ministry’s halls. People used to step out of his way, or scurry up to him, all deference and toad-licking. He’d liked both. That was before he tied his cart to the wrong horse. Now he entered the Ministry cautiously and when people stepped out of his way it wasn’t because they were afraid of him. It was because they wanted him to see their disgust.

Cowards. Too afraid to take a stand back when it might have mattered, they wanted points now for being offended by the failed Death Eater. _My wife saved your precious hero_, he wanted to spit at the receptionist scuttling by, condemnation in her eyes. _If it weren’t for her – weren’t for _my family_ – you’d be learning just how bad the Dark Lord was._

At least he wasn’t in Azkaban anymore. Served his time in that brief stint, and he might be stripped of his wand, might be a beggar at the feast, but he could come here. He could walk through the offices and see if he had any chips left he could use.

Could eavesdrop.

“An impressive young lady,” one of the less intelligent Wizengamot members was saying as she walked past. “And I can’t say I’m not impressed she went back to Hogwarts to finish up her education. A lot of girls in her place would have just married Potter and gotten a sinecure until the babies came.”

“I think she was dating one of the Weasley boys, not Potter.”

“One of Arthur’s crew?” A snort followed that and Lucius couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Arthur Weasley was a fool with too many children. He kept his head down, fiddling with his cane to see how much more he could overhear. “Well, I saw her at Augusta’s Easter dinner and she and that boy of hers couldn’t keep their eyes off one another.”

“That poor boy. His parents.”

“A tragedy.”

“It’s good to see young blood livening the place up.”

Get to the point, Lucius wanted to snap. Then he heard it. “I was thinking of putting her name in the hat for Minister.”

The slight slur to the speech. The way the words were oddly stiff. It was subtle. Most people wouldn’t have heard it, and, if they had, wouldn’t have known what it was.

Lucius Malfoy did.

Who had put a member of the Wizengamot under the Imperius?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for her expert beta reading!


	19. Chapter 19

_excerpt from a letter_

_… actually very exciting. N.E.W.T.s are next week, so I’m trying not to think about it, but you know how I always said I wanted to do some good in the world. Maybe Magical Law really is the way to go. Politics. Neville and I have been talking about it a lot. You and me and Ron – we really had no idea how bad things were here. The more I learn, the angrier I get and I think if these rumors are true, well, maybe we can make things different. Maybe we can make them better. But it is a little overwhelming and I keep thinking we’re too young to take on that kind of responsibility – that kind of _power_ – but then I remember that no one thought we were too young when they turned us into soldiers. If I’m old enough to risk my life for the wizarding world, I’m damn well old enough to…_

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco knew it would be bad when his father cast a _muffliato. _He should have been studying. The damn exams were _next week _and he couldn’t let low marks prove he was nothing but a failed Death Eater. He _wanted_ to be studying. He wanted to be anywhere but here, sitting across the table from his father in a semi-private corner of a pub and thrusting his fork into some shepherd’s pie.

He wanted to be thrusting into Hermione Granger, which was fucking stupid because of all the people in the world, she was the one he trusted least. She’d walked through his head and tucked compulsions in and one of them had been to touch her. He didn’t want to think of her there, in his mind, sniffing out the ways he was weak. The ways he could be manipulated. Never mind that he knew as much about her. Never mind he wasn’t being rational. He’d survived Voldemort because he could keep his thoughts to himself. She shouldn’t have been able to do that.

He didn’t like being that vulnerable. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But, really, what yanked his fucking chain was that he hadn’t done anything to her that crossed the line into sex stuff. He just hadn’t. There were lines you didn’t cross, and mailing a recipe to potter was one thing Compelling a person to want to touch you was another.

And how could he ever believe any urge he had to touch her again? Right now, every time he lifted a forkful of potatoes to his mouth, he pictured her mouth. Every time he smiled at his father with as natural and encouraging a face as he could manage, he pictured Hermione’s rare, real smiles. Every time he –

Christ. No. No more. That was enough.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he said to his father. Lucius looked better. The ordeal that was Voldemort and the aftermath that followed was slowly fading from the lines around his eyes. That didn’t mean he looked good. He’d aged and it showed.

Well, so had Draco, and he blamed his father for a lot of that. If he’d had the common sense of a titmouse, he’d have stayed as far away from Voldemort as possible. Blaise Zabini’s mother had smiled and nodded and flitted away, smoothly uncommitted. Pansy Parkinson’s family had made noises about how honored they were, but the strains of raising a child kept them from being able to devote the time a true follower had to have. Neither of them had Marks burned into their arms. Both of them still had wands in their hands.

He envied them with a bitterness that burned.

Hell, even Theo still had a wand, and his father had been a true believer. Not one who pushed his underage son at the movement, though. Draco’s smile became a little more strained as he waited for his father to tell him what it was he wanted. What it was he thought his son could do for him this time.

“I was in the Ministry a bit ago,” Lucius began.

Draco wanted to groan. Instead he took another bite of his lunch. The pub had used lamb instead of the beef Hogwarts tended to default to. That was nice. He took another bite and chewed as slowly as he could. _Don’t talk with your mouth full_ was a basic bit of manners. No one could expect him to reply if he was eating. He managed a vague, “Mmmm?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear a few officials chatting,” Lucius went on and Draco managed to control his snort. _Couldn’t help but overhear_ indeed. As if Lucius hadn’t gone there for the express purpose of eavesdropping. “It was very odd.”

“Boring, I would expect,” Draco said before shoving another mouthful of potato and lamb in.

“Well, in many ways. They were quite taken with a young, upcoming witch. Girl who used to date one of Arthur Weasley’s interchangeable sons.”

Oh. Shit. Draco’s mask slipped firmly into place.

“Took me a bit of research to figure out who it was.”

“He has a lot of sons,” Draco said blandly. “Could be any of several dozen girls I would think.”

“Mmm. Contraceptive charms clearly not Molly Prewett’s specialty.”

Draco allowed a smile. It was hard not to enjoy his father’s ongoing dislike of the Weasleys.

“But I was able to narrow it down to one girl, and I remembered you used to talk about her all the time.”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit _shit_.

“Do you remember Hermione Granger?”

The words hung there. Did he remember Hermione Granger. Mudblood. Thorn in his side. Frizzy-haired symbol of everything he couldn’t have. He remembered her slapping him. He remembered her tiresome hand shoved into the air, waving frantically in class. He remembered her nails digging into his back as she came. “Somewhat,” he said, then offered, “She’s back at Hogwarts this year. We had a few detentions together first term.”

“She’s become a very pretty young woman,” Lucius said. “And a war hero, of course.”

“Indeed.”

“But I find myself incredibly curious why someone would _imperius_ a member of the Wizengamot to put her name in for Minister.” Lucius took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Draco’s face. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

. . . . . . . . .

“He knows.” Draco is pacing through the room, drink clutched in one hand, the other reaching for the wand that isn’t there. You wonder if he realizes he does that. It wouldn’t be kind to point it out, so you keep your mouth shut even as he does it again. Hermione’s eyes are on the aborted reach for the wand too, though she’s sitting across the room from him. They haven’t touched in months. Not since you and Hermione started your playacting dating.

You reach out and slip your fingers through Theo’s. Unlike her, you won’t let your game of pretend get in the way of what’s real.

“What does he know,” Hermione asks. Her voice is very calm and very level and very, very lacking in emotion. She must be raging inside to sound that carefully flat.

Draco spins on his heel and points a hand at her. “He heard people talking about putting you up for Minister.”

“Good?” Hermione says. It’s half a question, asking why wouldn’t that be good. It’s what the whole point of this has been, what every last gushing interview with members of the Wizengamot has been about. Every photo shoot, every hand shyly slipped into yours where people can see, every faint blush as she refuses to talk about her personal life.

“He knew they’d been _imperiused_.” Draco practically yells that, and you flinch back. That was unexpected.

“How?” As usual, Theo gets right to the point.

Draco reaches for his wand, then runs a hand through his hair before taking a large gulp of his drink. “You can tell,” he says a bit hoarsely. “If you know what to look for. If you’ve seen it a lot.”

“How fucked are we?” Theo asks.

“You,” Draco grinds out, “are not fucked at all. Neville is not fucked, and little miss perfect over here is not fucked. Which of us has a _known history _of casting the _imperius_ on people?”

“Oh,” Hermione says very softly.

You press your lips together because he’s right, and you hadn’t thought of that. “Who else would recognize it?” you ask.

Draco shrugs and takes another drink. “The Carrows might,” he says. “They aren’t the brightest stars in the sky, but they saw that a lot. Yaxley certainly would. Dolohov.”

“So, Death Eaters,” Hermione says.

“Yes.” It’s a snap. “Death Eaters _like my father._”

Like _me_, you know he means, but you’re thinking. Strategy is a thing. Not a thing Harry Potter ever used, you know that. He just went tromping around the woods looking for treasure, but those of you stuck back here had to plan your moves, and maybe you aren’t terrible at it. Getting whipped for mistakes was one hell of a motivation to learn quickly. “But no one else?” you ask, which is the main thing. “We don’t need to worry about people actually in the Ministry noticing.”

Draco snorts, and that contempt is as good an answer as anything else.

“Would he try to stop us?” Lucius Malfoy, you mean.

Draco opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it, and that’s not good. You know that means he was going to snap that of course his father wouldn’t get in their way. You know the automatic, unthinking way he defends his father. Of course, Lucius has no way of knowing it’s _their_ way -- Draco’s way -- and he might well conclude that turning someone doing unforgivables over to the Ministry will earn him a few more brownie points and, magic knows, he needs them. You need him on your side. You need him to think that betraying you is betraying his own.

Which it is.

“Hermione,” you say.

She raises her eyebrows.

“We need to break up.”

“Does this mean we can hold hands in public?” Theo asks. “Or get in a quickie in Hagrid’s old shack the way the rest of the student body does?”

“People are _fucking_ in _Hagrid’s house_?” Hermione asks in obvious indignation.

“Where have you been?” Theo asks. “The Shrieking Shack too.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“I like to think they’re making love,” Theo says so sanctimoniously you grin.

Hermione is not amused, and you need to get her back on track. “Look,” you say as quickly as you can, before she goes off on some awful tangent about how Hagrid was a hero and people shouldn’t be sneaking into his old house, even if he didn’t live there anymore, to have sex. “We need Lucius Malfoy to keep his mouth shut.”

“Yes?”

“And if you’re dating Draco, he will.”

Draco and Hermione are studiously _not_ looking at one another, and you exchange a quick, confused glance with Theo. You’d expected them to be happy about this. It solves the Lucius Malfoy problem, and lets them be together in public. Hell, you can use it as an opportunity to come out. “We can tell Rita I’ve realized I don’t like girls.”

“Oh, she’ll love that,” Hermione mutters. She will, too. You can already picture the gushing article. If she didn’t like you, she’d paint you as a pervert. But since your story sells papers and keeps her byline on the front page, she’ll cast you as someone nobly struggling to find himself in the aftermath of the war.

You kind of like that. You’ll have to make a point of mentioning it in her hearing, though not to her, and she’ll steal it like the magpie she is.

“You can take Hermione home to meet Mum and Dad,” Theo says.

Draco finally looks at Hermione. His face is a study in longing for a moment before his mask slips into place and he takes another sip of his drink. “Won’t that be fun,” he says. Like Hermione earlier, his voice betrays no emotion at all.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpts from an Interview with Corban Yaxley_

_INTERVIEWER: So would you say Lord Voldemort –_

_YAXLEY: Tom Riddle_

_INTERVIEWER: I’m sorry, who?_

_YAXLEY: Tom Riddle. It wasn’t common knowledge, but the Dark Lord began his life as a boy like any other. It’s a bit of a tragic story, really. Raised in a Muggle orphanage. Abused by Muggles. It doesn’t excuse his life, of course, but, perhaps, it explains it. Gives it context. We’re all trapped by our childhood, and his was sadder than most._

_INTERVIEWER: And you think he was wrong? Despite your place in his organization. And despite this childhood?_

_YAXLEY: Oh, very much so. We were all taken in, you see. He didn’t start as a monster. He started as a man with a vision. And the charisma. It’s hard to explain now, but the man was so full of passion. He loved magic in a way I’d never seen in anyone else. Loved our world. When I met him, I thought I would follow him anywhere. I believed in him, in his dreams, absolutely and without reservation._

_INTERVIEWER: And then?_

_YAXLEY: Well, we all know what happened, don’t we? He went from an inspiring leader to a madman. By the end, he was like an animal. He hungered. He thirsted. He wanted – my god, how he wanted things, and he lashed out at anyone who got it his way. But he didn’t reason any more. He wasn’t human any longer in any sense that matters._

_INTERVIEWER: And why do you think that is?_

_YAXLEY: Well, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it? You can’t drink from a poisoned well forever. Sooner or later, the taint will kill you._

_INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it? Following him_

_YAXLEY: It’s not really a question of regret. I don’t think there’s a single one of us who didn’t end up regretting the choices we’d made that left us standing at Tom Riddle’s side, afraid to leave. Lucius Malfoy, you know? Riddle held his only son over his head, threatened the boy. Antonin –_

_INTERVIEWER: Antonin Dolohov, you mean._

_YAXLEY: Exactly. He had family. We all had family. So, regrets, of course. But regret isn’t really enough, is it? It’s not quite the right word. We _regret_ forgetting to pick up a potion at the chemist’s. One doesn’t regret joining a madman. _

_INTERVIEWER: We need a better word for it._

_YAXLEY: We do. I think a key part is trying to apologize to the country I have hurt, to make amends. I have a lifetime to try to undo what I did as a member of Tom Riddle’s organization, to try to get us back to the ideals that made us so passionate all those years ago, and I hope this book is a first step._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

“I think it’s just so _brave_ of Neville.” Draco gritted his teeth at the wistful sigh that followed that and pressed himself even more firmly into the shadows between the rows of books. He didn’t want to hear this and sure as hellfire didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping.

“Didn’t take her long to move on.” That was said with more of a sniff. “And to Malfoy.”

“Ugh, I know. But my aunt works at the Ministry and she says everyone’s talking about putting her up for Minister as soon as she takes her N.E.W.T.s and if you want to succeed in politics, well, the Malfoys. Even now.”

“Money is always money, and blood is always blood.”

“First Potter, now Malfoy.”

“She does have a knack for sucking up to the right people.”

The two girls laughed, and their heels clacked against the stone floors as they tip tapped their way away, back to the sun, away from the library and all the wisdom and knowledge it contained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to OlivieBlake for beta reading. She is one of the gems of dramione.


	20. Chapter 20

Draco had never appreciated how long the approach was to his home until he walked it with Hermione. The invitation had arrived with far too much precision and he was left wondering how the Hogwarts gossip reached his mother so efficiently. Hermione and Neville drifted apart from one another, Neville was spotted holding Theo’s hand down by the Black Lake, and he and Hermione made a point to be seen studying together, her foot pressed against his under the table. The next day the owl arrived.

_A little bird whispered in my ear you’ve made friends with one of Harry Potter’s closest chums. Perhaps I could entice you to bring her by once exams are done. Nothing formal. Just a little tea and some biscuits. _It might as well have been an order. Bring Hermione Granger by so I can inspect her. Not that it wasn’t exactly what they’d wanted.

It still rankled.

They’d apparated to the foot of the drive, then walked up, feet crunching against gravel. The walk went on and on and it was only when she flinched at the scream of one of his father’s blasted peacocks that Draco remembered Hermione been tortured here. He wanted to kick himself for forgetting that. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked in an undertone.

She didn’t pretend not to understand, only said tartly, “If you and Theo and Neville can go back to Hogwarts where you were tortured repeatedly for a year, I think I can handle your house.”

He didn’t press. Arguing that his aunt had been especially good at torture, probably far better than the Carrows, didn’t seem like a good idea.

His mother met them at the door. “Draco.” She leaned forward so he could place a kiss on one cheek. That ritual done, she turned a cool eye onto Hermione. “A delight to meet you, Miss Granger.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “We’ve met.”

Draco wanted to crawl into a hole. The words were a challenge, and the only person he’d ever seen challenge his mother and come out unscathed was Voldemort. Even Aunt Bella had been wary of taking her sister on too directly. Narcissa raised her brows and looked down her nose and Hermione, who didn’t so much as flinch under the stare. “Have we?” Narcissa asked.

“Oh yes,” Hermione said. “I mean, we weren’t properly introduced, but your sister tortured me in your house.” Her smile was all bland propriety. “Perhaps it slipped your mind.”

Draco watched his mother press her lips together, but, wonder of wonders, it seemed less in disapproval than to keep a slight smile from escaping. “Perhaps,” was all she said before stepping aside so they could enter.

Tea had been laid in a small sunroom toward the back of the house. Narcissa led them there, deftly avoiding the room where Draco had been asked to identify Harry Potter. The room where Hermione had been tortured. He’d always liked this spot. Half green-house, half orangerie, the brick floor gave the room a rustic feel, and the potted orange trees made the place smell like summer all year round. He hadn’t appreciated how much it also reeked of wealth until he discovered not everyone had their very own summer room to enjoy even when snow was falling.

Lucius was notably absent.

“How has Hogwarts been this year?” Narcissa asked. Draco held a chair out for Hermione before sliding into his own place. His mother had put out the medium good china. Not the sort of thing she used for fancy meals where the point was to make guests feel their inferiority, but also not the dishes they used every day. It was an interesting compromise. Hermione didn’t seem to register the quality of the plates. She just helped herself to several biscuits from the platter.

“It was fine,” she said. “Classes were more challenging, though now that Voldemort is dead we had far fewer interruptions.”

Narcissa didn’t so much as flick one lash at the mention of the Dark Lord. “Oh?”

“And, of course,” Hermione went on, “it was much calmer than it was last year with Amycus and Alecto Carrow running about, torturing students.”

That got her a frown. “I hope you aren’t under the impression I condoned that.”

“I am not.”

“They weren’t the only ones,” Draco muttered.

He could feel Hermione's eyes dart over to him before returning to his mother. “Argus Filch seems to have disappeared. Were there others?” she asked.

He shrugged at that, letting his mother use her skills to guide the conversation where she wanted it. “We hear a lot in the Ministry about you, Miss Granger.”

“Please. Hermione.”

“Hermione, then. We hear a lot about you in the Ministry, Hermione. Talk of a bright future. An _oddly_ bright future for a woman so young and so – forgive me for being direct – not from a politically inclined family.”

Hermione bit off the end of one of the biscuits and chewed. Draco poured tea to keep his hands busy. Hermione’s chewing seemed very loud, and her swallow louder still. At last, she said, “You don’t believe people are excited for new blood in politics. I am widely considered a war hero, after all.”

“You’re also, what? Eighteen?”

“Nineteen,” Hermione said. “Though I take your point.”

“I can’t help but be so very curious,” Narcissa said, “How _did_ you get so many people to overlook your youth and lack of family connections?”

“Mostly with _Imperius_,” Hermione said. “Though I’m sure there are plenty of people who have joined the chatter because it seems like currently accepted wisdom.”

“Indeed.” Narcissa picked up a small pitcher of milk and passed it over. “I didn’t think to ask. Do you take sugar or honey in your tea?”

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a newspaper article_

_… despite her youth and her lack of experience in governance, Hermione Granger has swept into the position of Minister of Magic after an overwhelming vote in her favor. One member of the Wizengamot, who asked that his name not be used, said, “I don’t understand it. Scrimgeour has been an excellent Minister, overseeing all the post-War rebuilding, and now we’re throwing him aside for a near child. It’s as if all my peers have lost their minds.” No one else was willing to comment, but …_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

You stand in Hermione’s office, run a nervous hand over the beautiful wood desk. It’s lush, this office. It reeks of power and wealth. “Do you want it?” she asks.

You can’t think of anything you want less. This place is a chain already holding her down. You’ve seen her morning schedule, left on her desk by a terrifyingly efficient secretary. She came with the office, and if she has an opinion about a 19-year-old Minister, she’s kept it to herself.

“I think I like working behind the scenes better,” you say. This is too showy. Too flashy. This is standing up in front of the Carrows and daring them to strike you down.

(she laughed through her nose, a braying haw that was loud enough to be heard over the crack of the

whip)

You rub at the scars around your wrists. You have to have lunch with your grandmother after this. She’s already sent you a Howler about leaving that nice girl. About Theo. About disappointing her. Lunch is sure to be fun, especially since Theo refuses to be left behind.

“We’re making things better,” she says fiercely. “We will.”

You smile. “Let’s wipe the slate clean.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The knock seemed loud in the small flat. Draco jerked around sharply at the sound, then forced himself to take a deep breath. He wasn’t used to living alone; wasn’t used to being out of the Hogwarts dormitories; wasn’t used to being out of the Manor. And the knock had startled him. That was all. He wasn’t jumping at shadows. He was fine.

He was fine.

He was fine.

He stood up and counted the steps across the smooth parquet floor. Five between his couch and the door. The floor gleamed with fresh polish, and everything smelled new and clean and not at all like old blood or screams, and he opened the door with a smile on his face.

Hermione.

“Hullo,” he said, smile still firmly in place. Her breasts strained out against the mustardy jumper she wore, and the set of her jaw looking as forced as his smile. She’d pulled her hair up, and he could see the curve of her neck where he’d liked to press his mouth. His cock strained for a moment; then, as he focused on her shoulders and the way she’d mind-fucked him into rubbing them, died back down.

He had to be happy to see her. They were dating, or something. God, it was hilarious. He was pretending to date a woman his parents would never have approved of to keep his father from earning political points by turning her in. He leaned forward to brush his lips against hers in case anyone was watching, then straightened up and held the door for her.

She stopped right inside his flat. “This is nice,” she said. She sounded surprised, and Draco wondered what she’d expected. Endless Slytherin posters on the wall and heavy green furniture everywhere? He wasn’t twelve anymore.

“My mother did it,” he said, shutting the door. Left to himself, he’d probably still be living out of a trunk and sleeping on the floor. It was hard to find the energy to eat, much less go buy furniture, but Narcissa Malfoy coped with stress by shopping, and she’d coped at length. Everything was white and new and expensive. The windows were full of plants, several already drooping. She’d arranged some sort of decorative wicker balls in a bowl, the point of which escaped him, but it was too much trouble to get rid of them.

“It’s nice,” Hermione said.

“Yeah.”

She held out a box, and Draco’s hands trembled as he took it. It was the sort of box you got at Ollivander’s. When he pried the lid off, a wand – _his_ wand – sat nestled on a bit of black velvet. He looked up at her, eyes wide. “I’m not allowed,” he began.

“I made a law,” she said. “We get to do that now that I’m –“

“Right.” He picked it up, shocked the Ministry hadn’t broken it, but wasn’t that British thinking through and through. Save everything. The wand settled into his hand as if it had missed him, and if he didn’t get a hold of himself he was going to break down crying, right here in front of Hermione Granger. He bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could, forcing out as indifferent a, “Thanks” as he could manage. The word trembled, though, and he doubted she was fooled.

“I told you it was wrong they took your wand,” she said.

“A lot of things are wrong,” he said.

“And this was the first one I fixed.” She came closer, right at the edge of his personal space. He could smell her perfume. His eyes kept going to that jumper. “Try it.”

A little twitch. A whispered word. The logs his mother had laid in the fireplace sparked into life. Another spell. A dozen sparrows flung themselves from the end of his wand and flew around the room in a dizzying spiral. Another. Another. Another. He was alive again. He was whole. He wanted to fall to his knees and cry. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to grab Hermione Granger and kiss her, rip that jumper off, put his mouth on one breast, then the other. Fuck her until he lost himself in more and more and more and more and –

Or not.

She was pulling a bottle of whiskey – good whiskey; he could tell by just one glimpse of the label – out of her bag. “I thought we should celebrate,” she said.

_“Accio cups_,” Draco said, pointing his wand toward the small kitchen. Cupboard doors opened and two heavy tumblers slid gently through the air before settling on the occasional table in front of the couch.

Hermione poured. “To us,” she said. “Righting wrongs and making the world a better place.”

“To us,” he agreed.

. . . . . . . . . .

“I don’t understand why it isn’t _you_, Neville.” Your grandmother purses her lips at you and you remind yourself that she loves you. She loves your father. She loves your mother. She loves you. She is doing the best she can.

It’s hard to remember that when she has spent the last twenty minutes complaining that it’s Hermione who is Minister of Magic, not you. That it should be you. You were the leader at Hogwarts when she was off camping. You were supposed to be the one, the one, the one.

You want to scream.

Even Theo has given up. A few icy comments on his tie and his father and he lapsed into silence. It’s a nice restaurant. You can’t throw your plate to the floor. You can’t throw your glass against the wall. You can’t throw anything.

Except for a child out a window.

Your Uncle Algie is tearing off another bit of the break and sliming butter over it. “Listen to your grandmother, Neville,” he says. You want to like him. You want to respect him. He gave you Trevor the toad back when you were a child. He gave you a rare potted _Mimbulus Mimbletonia. _He loves you.

Of course, that is because you are magical.

“Theo,” you say, interrupting another one of your grandmother’s screeds about how Hermione had clearly just been using him to claw her way to power.

“What?”

“Would you love me if I lost the ability to do magic?”

A corner of Theo’s mouth twitches up and for a moment, you’re very afraid of what he might say. A glance at your grandmother’s furious face quells him, though, and he answers seriously. “You’re more than your magic, Nev.”

“But he’s a very powerful wizard,” your Uncle says. It’s half bluster, but only half.

Theo shrugs. “I knew a lot of powerful wizards at Hogwarts,” he says quietly. “I only knew one person who stood up to the Carrows over and over again. Stood up to them, led a resistance against them. No one from outside the school helped, sir. Ma’am. Not even you. Begging your pardon, of course.”

“Which is why _Neville_ should be the leader of Wizarding Britain,” your grandmother says, but her nagging and disappointment don’t matter when Theo slides his hand into yours. “Not that girl. _My grandson.”_

Theo squeezes your hand, then looks at her directly. It’s a stare. It’s rude. He holds her gaze until she starts to squirm in her seat, something you’ve never seen anyone do to her before. “What makes you think he isn’t?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for continuing to beta read this, and to all of you for reading.


	21. Chapter 21

_excerpt from a letter_

_… of course, I gave him back his wand, Harry. It’s hardly the only thing I’ve done as Minister, you know. I’ve been working all day, every day, trying to get my feet under me on this job and I’d really appreciate it if you could be a little supportive instead of latching on to the _one thing_ I’ve done that you don’t approve of. God. Why is it always Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy with you? _

_And we’re doing fine. Thank you for asking._

_I hope you get done with that mission in the Ukraine soon. I miss you, and things are so awkward with Ron. After he found out I went down to Ministry storage and got Draco’s wand back, he showed up screaming at me that I was no better than _Lucius_ Malfoy, which is pretty rich coming from a boy whose father is notorious inside the Ministry for accepting bribes to make Muggle related infractions go away. Remember that amazing box we had for the World Cup right before all the troubles started? You know how Arthur Weasley paid for that? Those tickets were a ‘gift’. Yeah, right. A gift. But you were fine with that, weren’t you? Giving Draco back his _own wand_ is peanuts by comparison. _

_Anyway, I really want you to try to get along with Draco. He’s been standoffish since before we left Hogwarts, and I don’t know…_

. . . . . . . . . .

You’re out of Hogwarts, you’ve staged a coup, and nothing has really changed. Maybe you’re in Draco Malfoy’s flat instead of an abandoned room, but it’s still the four of you and Theo is still looking at the whiskey Hermione brought as if she’d distilled it herself out of potatoes and old leaves.

“Really, Granger?” he asks in his most petulant drawl. “You’re running all of magical Britain and you’re still buying _this_?”

“The salary isn’t as high as you might expect,” she says half-defensively, and you can’t help it. You laugh. That laugh must make her hear herself because it takes a moment and then she laughs too. 

“You could raise it,” Theo suggests.

“That would be an abuse of power,” she says primly, causing Theo to make an exaggerated face at his drink.

“So instead I get abused with sup-par bourbon,” he says. “I see how it goes.”

You laugh and lean up against him. There hasn’t been a lot to laugh about lately. You’d hoped the nightmares would go away once you were out of school, away from the floors and rooms and windows that formed the set for so many of them, but instead, they’ve gotten stronger. You and Theo live in a place that his galleons pay for because your grandmother is refusing to come around to the idea that you’re _like that._ “It’s one thing to have a _friend_ in school,” she said, a distasteful moue shaping her mouth around the word ‘friend’, “but you’re an adult now and it’s time to put boyish things behind you.”

You didn’t miss the implication your inheritance hangs in the balance.

So, Theo paid for the flat you share, and Theo paid for the bed you sleep in, and Theo pays for the food in the cupboards and the books on the shelves and every time you make any noises about how it isn’t fair to him, he mutters he isn’t going back to his house.

His father was a true believer, like Draco’s. You don’t ask about what demons lurk in the hallways of Nott Manor, and he doesn’t offer up information. The flat you share is stark and bright and there’s no place any demons who feel like following either of you home can hide, all of which makes it unfair you’re still waking screaming, reaching for your wand, the feel of chains closing around your wrists again.

At least now you aren’t waking alone.

“What’s next on our agenda, oh fearless leader?” Draco asks.

“The squib protection act?” you half say, half ask.

“Already being drafted,” Hermione says. You nod. No more tossing of children out of windows. No more automatic disinheritance. No more legal disinterest in children and babies who die because who cares about someone who doesn’t have magic?

“Any pushback?” Theo asks.

She shakes her head. This one is easy. No one wants to go on record as being for murder. Not after Voldemort. “And we’re adding a Test of Basic Muggle Knowledge exam for anyone who works in a Muggle-facing department.” Draco squints at her and she adds, a bit more defensively, “No one’s asking _you_ to make change for a fiver, Draco, but if someone’s supposed to be out there Obliviating the Muggle public or tracking illegal Muggle item usage, they should know how to use the telly and how the mails work and… just basic things.”

“The belly?” Theo asks.

“The _telly_,” she says. “With a tee.”

You shrug. None of this feels like enough. You’re passing bills and adding exams and you can’t believe this bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo is really going to make a difference. Grindelwald inspired an uprising. Fanatics flocked to Voldemort. A Test of Basic Muggle Knowledge is feeble compared to that.

People break rules and cheat on tests.

You have to do something more.

. . . . . . . . . .

“To us,” she said.

Draco closed his eyes and waited for the erection to die down. Waited to _not care. _To _not want. _Waited for memories to go away because he was playacting, playacting, playacting. He was not in a relationship with Hermione Granger. He did not care about her. He was not thinking about her.

“She’s lovely,” he said to his father over a family dinner, just the three of them. A sly smile. “Got my wand back first thing.”

Narcissa smiled back at him with the cool superiority only she could summon and raised her glass. “To your lovely girlfriend.”

“To righting wrongs,” she said, glass in her hand.

Draco tossed to the right, eyes squeezed shut against the darkness. Her voice didn’t grate. Didn’t hurt. Didn’t make him afraid. Made him terrified. He’d crawl and eat out of her hand if she slid that into his head. Wouldn’t even notice. He’d justify it to himself. He’d lick her shoe.

His tongue going over the leather of Amycus Carrow’s shoe, desperate to please, desperate to make the pain stop. Everyone broke. Everyone broke. Everyone broke eventually.

Not Neville. Not Hermione. He did. He’d started last year in pieces, shattered into so many fragments that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would give him up as a bad job and go out for a pint. He was already broken. It was stupid to waste time thinking about how much smaller the bits could get.

His hands digging into her shoulders, working out a knot in her muscles. He could have put his hands around her neck. Could have squeezed the life out of her. He could remember the feeling of her shoulders under his hands. Could remember the taste of the shoe. Could remember the feeling of shoving into her. God, she’d always been so wet and he missed her, he missed her, he missed her.

Damn his cock. Draco bit on his tongue as hard as he could and thought of the ways he had never liked her. Of the ways she was self-righteous and ignorant and horrible and how the very first thing she’d done as minister was get his wand back.

He could taste blood in his mouth.

His hand stole down to his fucking horrible, selfish, mindless cock that didn’t care whether he could trust Hermione Granger, didn’t care about anything except the slow close of his hand around it, the giving in to memories of her mouth on him, of her hands, her clever, clever hands, the sounds she made when she came.

Everyone broke.

. . . . . . . . . .

Rita Skeeter leans over the table, her eyes sparkling. You smile as blandly as you can and wonder if she knows how much the way she bares her teeth reminds you of some of the Death Eaters. She has perfect teeth, which the Carrows didn’t. She’s clearly spent a lot of money on dental charms, but the perfectly even white bones remind you of grinning monsters. She wants to eat you.

“So,” she says.

You take a sip of your tea. It brewed too long. It’s bitter. You take another sip.

“You’re done with school now,” she says. “And you and that lovely girl – our new Minister -- aren’t together anymore. Did she mind? When you ended it?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. “We’re still the best of friends, so if she did mind, she’d probably tell me over drinks.” You let out a laugh that isn’t even forced as you imagine Hermione lecturing you. “And she wouldn’t hold back. Hermione Granger is… a force to be reckoned with.”

“You and she still get together?”

“Yes.” You wish Skeeter would get to the point. At least when Filch held the whip in his hands, he didn’t spend twenty minutes working up to the pain. He just let you have it. “She and I and our significant others.”

“Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy.”

God, she’s practically salivating. You nod and take another sip, throwing her a tidbit. “She and Draco were at each other’s throats for so much of our time at Hogwarts. She even slapped him back in third year. Or maybe fourth? You really never can tell who will end up together, can you?”

“Does your grandmother mind?”

Ah, there it is. You lean forward as if to convey that you’re going to tell her something that matters now. Let the lessening of space between us serve as intimacy. Summon a false smile; something rueful, maybe. A little wistful. “I think she’s having a hard time giving up her dreams of fat babies, but, of course, she adores Theo. Everyone does.”

“His father was a Death Eater. Does it bother you to know that, when your parents - ” She trails off, and you consider throwing the tea in her face. Your parents were good. They suffered in ways she can’t understand. They still suffer, locked up in their heads. She shouldn’t be talking about them with those blood red lips of hers. Shouldn’t be allowed to mention them.

“I don’t judge people by the sins of their parents,” you say. “Do you?”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco walked into the Ministry, Lucius at his side. He brought the cane, which Draco hated. Weakness. The cane showed weakness, even if his father didn’t need it to walk. Even if it was an affectation. A shield. A mask.

Lucius Malfoy knew all about masks.

“So, Corban’s writing a book,” Lucius said.

Draco managed not to flinch at the words. _Corban_. _Yes_, he thought as he forced a smiled to his face and walked at his father’s side. _Let everyone in earshot know you’re on a first name basis with a man in Azkaban. That you weren’t a fringe Death Eater, or a hanger-on. Make sure everyone can tell the two of you were friends._

“People do,” Draco said. “Doesn’t Mum have all of Lockhart’s books?”

“Your mother likes a light read for the bath,” Lucius said. He stopped at a kiosk selling tea and bad scones and Draco was forced to stop with him, waiting as he pulled out coins for a paper cup of bad Darjeeling. “Do you want anything, son?”

“No.” Draco tried to soften the words, to explain why they were here to the witch pouring the tea and very carefully not making eye contact. “Hermione always has a pot up in her office.” God, what had he come to that he felt he had to justify his presence to a salesgirl?

“Ah,” Lucius said, then, “A little more milk, if you please.”

“There’s milk on the counter,” the witch said. _Do it yourself_ hung in the air and Draco could see Lucius cock his eyebrows, but he didn’t protest. He merely went over to the little carton of milk, poured some into his cup, and spun his finger around the top. The wordless, wandless spell stirred the milk into the tea and Lucius lifted the cup to his mouth, taking a careful sip. “Ah,” he said. “Well, up to say a quick hullo to Miss Granger with you before I head over to Diagon and look for a present for your mother.”

All of life was theatre. Coming here, ordering the tea, showing he could still work magic inspiring in its simplicity. Reminding people he could walk into the Minister’s office unscheduled. Draco couldn’t help but be a little impressed. This man was the father he’d idolized back when the world had been simple.

He tugged his sleeves lower over his wrists.

“Hermione’s probably pretty busy,” he said.

Lucius smiled. “I don’t plan to stay. I know better than to get in the way of a powerful witch, but Narcissa asked me to pass along an invitation to sort through some of the Malfoy jewellery. See if there’s anything down in the vaults she particularly likes, or might like if it was reset.”

“Some of those things could use a little updating,” Draco said automatically, but his mind had fallen down into his stomach and was clawing its way through his gut. The walls were white and bright and coming closer and everything was loud. He inhaled through his nose and counted to three. “I think the lift’s free.”

“Oh, good,” Lucius said. He smiled at the tea witch. “Have a good day, my dear. Your tea is excellent.”

Oh, why not just ask, _Did you get all that_? Draco wondered. Surely the woman knew Lucius Malfoy wasn’t in the habit of thanking the help or complimenting cheap tea. 

Whether she knew that or not didn’t matter. Lucius had planted his seeds in fertile soil, and she didn’t even wait until they were in the lift to grab a passing witch and hiss the news into her ear. Narcissa Malfoy was planning on showing the Minister old Malfoy heirlooms. _Jewellery_.

Draco could hear, “Do you think they’ll have a reception here for the staff after the wedding?” as the lift doors closed and they began to rise from the Atrium on level eight all the way to level one where Hermione’s office was. Memos hovered around their heads and Draco didn’t say a word. There was nothing to say.

“Hullo, darling,” he said when they reached Hermione. Her terrifying secretary sat at her desk and said nothing as Draco made a point of leaning forward and kissing Hermione’s cheek. “Father wanted to come by, say hullo, when I said we were meeting for lunch, and you know how he is.”

The expression Hermione turned on Lucius was frosty, but the chill didn’t reach her voice. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “I’m always happy to see Draco’s parents. What can I help you with?”

Lucius pulled out a folded bit of parchment and handed it over. “Message for you from Narcissa,” he said. “And with that delivered, I’ll be off. I’ve been instructed not to come home without something she can, and I quote, pass down to a granddaughter.”

Draco’s shoulders became even more tense at that, but he shook his father’s hand, nodded at the secretary, and escaped into Hermione’s office without any further revelations from his father.

“What was that all about,” Hermione said as she closed the door. Her smile became warm, and she held a hand out to him. “And you didn’t tell me you wanted to have lunch.”

Draco shoved his hands into his pockets. “I think that was about my parents trapping us into marriage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to OlivieBlake for her beta reading. She is perfection.


	22. Chapter 22

“What?”

Hermione dropped the hand she’d been holding out and stared at him. Draco nodded grimly.

“_Your _parents,” she said slowly. “The pureblood bigots – “

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“It’s not. They want us – you and me, their little darling and the Mudblood – to get married?”

“Try not to sound so pleased,” Draco said. The words came out almost as sourly as his stomach felt. Not that he wanted to be tied to her forever. He didn’t. He absolutely didn’t. That didn’t make it any less insulting that she sounded so… well, aghast. At least he got a bit of smug pleasure that she’d written off his parents, the pureblood bigots, just as surely as they’d written her off for years. _How’s it feel to get caught in one of their traps_, he wanted to ask her. _Now imagine being sixteen and having it close around you._

Hermione gave him an unreadable look, then broke open the wax seal on Narcissa’s note and scanned the words. Draco could see her eyes go back to the beginning and read it again, then a third time. “Do Malfoy brides typically pick out their own engagement ring?” she asked. “Just go down to the vault and find what you like?” Her voice was rising in outrage and Draco cast a quick _muffliato _around the room. No need for everyone on the floor to hear what she thought of being married to him, or of being draped in priceless gems.

“Most women like jewellery,” he said. Even with this _thing_ on his arm, he wasn’t exactly something you’d find on the bottom of your shoe. He was a _Malfoy_. That still meant something. And the money. Money always meant something.

“Most women like the idea their fiancé cared enough to pick out something he thought she’d like,” Hermione shot back.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?” he asked. “We’re only in this for the politics.”

Some of the light went out of her face, and her outrage deflated. “Right,” she said. She pulled out a quill and scrawled a quick reply on the bottom of the note, then folded it back up. “See that your mother gets this, would you?”

Draco shoved it down into a pocket without reading. “Of course,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Not to seem like a boor here, but are we getting married or not?”

“With Yaxley about to go on a book tour?” Hermione shrugged. “We’ll do what we have to in order to keep your father from ratting us out.”

Of course, they would. It could be a lot worse. If the war had gone the other way, his aunt probably would have shoved him into bed with one of the Carrow twins and told him to get her pregnant, make more pureblood babies for the cause. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like Hestia – or Flora, for that matter – it was just that he suspefcted both of them were the sort who’d poison a husband they didn’t like. At least with Hermione, he only had to worry she’d mess with his mind, not his tea.

Draco shuddered.

“Something wrong?” Hermione asked. “You did know about Yaxley, didn’t you?”

He hadn’t, but that wasn’t it. It was her. She could be twisting a compulsion into him right now and he wouldn’t know. _Get down on one knee and propose_ or _Fetch me that book_ or _Bend me over this desk and fuck me until I scream. _Poisoned tea seemed like the better option. “Just thinking about a couple of people at school,” he said. “The Carrow girls.”

Hermione nodded, and he remembered she’d been in the Slug Club with them. God, this world of theirs was so small. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone was related. “How’d they handle… that year?” she asked.

“Like anyone,” Draco said. “They kept their heads down and tried to stay out of sight.”

“Not like you,” she said. “You did all that brewing for Neville.”

“We both know I’m an idiot,” he said. “I said in public we were having lunch together. Shall we?”

She accioed her bag from a corner and nodded. “Is curry okay?”

“Curry sounds fine.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_overheard in a pub_

_…Christ, I don’t care who she dates. She’s like my sister, which means I have exactly zero interest in hearing about her love life. At all. Ever. Nothing. Nada. She does not have a pussy and no one goes near it with a dick._

_*pause* _

_*incoherent mumbling* _

_Maybe. My trip was bullshite. It was the Knight bus guy all over again. I tell you, I’d rather…_

. . . . . . . . . .

You turn the pages very slowly. Very carefully. You want to pick this book up and hurl it through the window. You want to rip each page out and set it on fire. You want to stay in control, so you turn another page. Riddle was charismatic. Riddle was an idealist. Riddle charmed us all. We didn’t understand. We were just victims, the same way everyone else was.

You inhale and count to ten. It’s a trick that always helped to distract you, at least for the second or two when you could still pretend it would help. When the shackles were closing around your wrists but before the whip started. Stone floor, cold against your face. You pretend you started the count as the shackles went on and ended it when you were released and lying there. Never doubted you were right. Never doubted you were right. Never doubted.

But, sure, Yaxley was just as much a victim as you were. The Carrows were innocent lambs led to the slaughter.

He needs a better word for regret, all right. Bastard. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco walked Hermione back to her office, hand at her lower back, social smile firmly in place. No difference between this and the mask his father had worn. Not really. In the end, none of them were anything but lies and layers and more lies after that.

“Thank you for lunch,” Hermione said.

“I am nothing if not attentive.” Draco eyed the tea witch as they walked past. She was making such a point of not looking at them he suspected she had every charm she knew to eavesdrop. Stupid bitch, so eager to have the newest, hottest gossip to spread. He could give her something, play his role like a good boy. “Would there be a good time for you to meet with my mother? She’ll be on me until you free up your schedule.”

“To go look at jewellery?” Hermione pitched her voice just a little louder than one would for normal conversation. Actors, the both of them, playing out their parts on the Ministry stage. Two of the Wizengamot members who’d voted for her stopped to listen, the oh-so-slightly glazed look in their eyes of the magically compelled. Hermione Granger was just so fascinating. So talented. The brightest witch of her age. It had only been logical to put her forth as Minister. Especially with her connection to Potter. Linking the past and the present, the old and the new.

Draco smiled down at her with a besotted look that was a lie covering the truth, and how could he know if that truth was anything other than the same _imperiused_ falsehoods the rest of these fools felt? “Of course, if you’d prefer something new,” he said, “I would be happy to oblige.”

“As would the jewelers of Diagon Alley.”

“Money spends,” he said agreeably.

A bitter look flashed through her eyes before she smothered it. “I’ll owl your mother. I think she would be hurt if I didn’t at least look at your family treasures before making a decision.”

“I’ll let her know to expect your message.”

And then they were at the lifts, and he was watching her mouth. Her teeth bit at her lower lip for a moment. “Draco,” she said very quietly as he gestured for her to precede him into the waiting lift. It was empty, which was a bit of a gift. He didn’t think he could stand playing this script out in close quarters. “You’ve been… I mean, I know this isn’t… but –“

The doors began to close and, in full view of their audience, Draco pushed her up against the side of the lift and pressed his mouth to hers. He meant it as a show, a way to stop her from talking. Nothing more. He didn’t want to talk about feelings. Not now. Not ever. So he was a coward. He didn’t care. Opening up to people only got you hurt, and he’d had enough of that. He was only kissing her to shut her up.

And then his body took over. He didn’t remember lifting his hands to her hair, or threading his fingers through her curls and pulling on them until she gasped. He didn’t notice when his cock went from indifferent to very much interested. He didn’t mean to shove his body against the stop button, halting the lift halfway to her floor. His mind didn’t participate in any of that because it was too busy remembering that this was good. The way she smelled, the jasmine tea he could taste in her mouth. She gasped at the near-assault, then whimpered and _oh god_ he’d missed that sound. The way she melted against him, her body curving to his as her lips opened, as she slid her hands under his shirt – when had that come untucked? – and her hands were on his skin and he was on fire. Her touch was sparks and magic and… fuck it.

What if she had compelled him? There was no reason to give this up. Why not fuck her instead of coming alone in his hand at night. There was no reason not to enjoy this, and it wasn’t as if he even had to be that nice to her. She wasn’t going to call their relationship off. Not with the threat of Lucius revealing what she’d done.

“I’m going to start the elevator again,” he whispered in her ear, “And we are going to walk to your office and you are going to tell that gorgon of a secretary to clear your calendar for the next hour and then I am going to bend you over your desk and fuck you.”

He pulled away from her. Her pupils had dilated and he could see her throat bob as she swallowed. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she said hoarsely.

He nodded, then tucked his shirt in and turned to face the doors. Thank god for restrictive pants. At least his arousal wasn’t wholly obvious from a casual glance.

The couple that walked through the corridor to her office were composed. Cool. Calm. Hermione’s voice didn’t betray a thing as she asked that secretary to clear a few hours for her, and the woman’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker down to the hint of a tent in his trousers. The couple that walked into Hermione’s office was unremarkable, unemotional. Then Draco turned the lock on the door with a click.

She’d worn a skirt, one of her stupid Muggle things, and Draco shoved it up over her hips. “Nice,” he said, tugging at the black lace knickers. Wasn’t it funny to think she might have always worn stuff like this? Tarty things under a perfect political exterior. Both of them in masks every hour of every day. He slid a finger under the lace and let out a hoarse laugh. She was as wet as he was hard. At least there wasn’t any question about her willingness here. “Stay out of my fucking head,” he said as he used a quick charm to cut through the fabric. One hand tossed the ruined lace to her desk while the other fumbled with his belt. “We clear on that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He’d gotten good at picturing walls and obstacles and barriers thanks to Voldemort and his aunt, and if he could keep their insanity out of his mind he could block Hermione Granger as well. No matter what the Wizengamot had been coaxed into believing, she wasn’t some prodigy for the ages. She was just a body.

His future goddamned wife.

He shoved into her, and shuddered because this was going to take even less time than he planned if he didn’t think of something other than the feel of her around his cock, the curve of her hips under his hands, the tiny mewling sounds just like -

(the sounds he’d made at the end of a _crucio_ session, trying not to cry because crying made it worse, too weak to scream any more, broken broken broken face on the floor it was cold and absence of pain is the most beautiful thing the best thing, “Does anyone have any questions?”)

No. Wall it away. Block it away.

\- the sounds she’d made for him at Hogwarts. He pulled almost all the way out of her, dragging himself back. She tried to push her way back onto him. “You want me?” he asked. “The fucking Death Eater.”

He shoved himself forward hard as he could, his fingers curling into her hips. She sagged over her desk, shuddering as she unmistakably came. Draco closed his eyes as he finished. She wanted him, that much was obvious. And all the fools in this Ministry thought she was so goddamned smart.

. . . . . . . . . .

You don’t even blink at the sight of Draco jerking up his trousers 

“Jesus, Neville,” Hermione says. “You ever heard of knocking?”

She has a skirt on, for which you’re momentarily grateful. You’ve seen Draco’s dick often enough. Had it in your mouth. There’s nothing embarrassing about seeing it again, at least not for you. Hermione’s parts, though. Your mind shies away. You can’t even say the words in your head, and your eyes edit out the sight of lacy black pants sitting on her desk. You didn’t need to know that about her and now you don’t, because you have erased that memory with an act of will and this thought will never appear in your head again.

Besides, her sex life isn’t why you’re here.

“I need to go to Azkaban,” you say. “You’re the Minister. Take me there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing OlivieBlake for beta reading! 


	23. Chapter 23

If there had ever been any question in Draco’s mind who the actual leader of their little insurrection was, Hermione’s reaction to Neville’s demand would have erased it. She nodded briskly, whisked her wand in a quick semi-circle while murmuring something and everything in the room became professional again. The smell of sex disappeared, her knickers tucked themselves into a drawer, a book floated out from the shelves. _Management of Azkaban_.

“Do you want to Floo?” she asked, consulting its pages.

“Whatever works,” Neville said.

She stuck her head out to tell her secretary that something had come up and she was going to make a quick, unannounced trip to Azkaban. Draco decided to refer to her in his head as The Least Flappable Woman Ever because all she said was, “It’s brisk there. Take a coat.”

“A very good point,” Hermione said and produced one for herself from a hook Draco had never noticed. The Least Flappable Woman Ever handed two grey peacoats from nowhere to him and Neville and they were off.

“Azkaban main office,” Hermione said clearly, then tossed a handful of powder into her private office Floo, stepped into the green flames, and whooshed away. Neville followed and last, with a sigh, Draco stepped into the fire.

He hated Floo travel. He hated the sucking feeling. He hated the sickening visual of a thousand other fireplaces flashing by too quickly for his brain to process. He hated the way it made his stomach churn and heave. But you couldn’t apparate in or out of Azkaban, thanks to the wards, and this was still better than a physical flight. But not by much.

When he tumbled out into the office of the warden, he involuntarily clutched at his wand. The cold light of the North Sea gave the room a sterile glow, and institutional file cabinets rose around a wooden desk like pillars at a Greek temple. The man sitting at that desk was already displeased to have Hermione and Neville in his office, but that was nothing compared to his opinion of Draco appearing unannounced out of his fireplace. He was too thin, to the point of being haggard, and a florid mustache dropped from an upper lip currently curled in distaste. “You’re bringing this one to me to lock up?” he asked.

“No,” Neville said.

Hermione’s hand went to her wand. “Aren’t trials a thing?” she asked.

The warden shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes not.”

“We’re here for the not,” Neville said. “Take us to Corban Yaxley.”

The warden leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I’m not in the habit of taking random visitors to see prisoners, no matter what they demand,” he said.

“And when the Minister for Magic demands it?” Hermione asked.

“Well, that would be a different matter.”

“Then I suggest you do it,” she said. “Since I’m demanding.”

He ran his eyes over her body, lingering at the swell of her breasts, and Draco’s shoulders tensed. “I heard they voted in some chit of a girl,” he said. “Didn’t believe it, though.” He didn’t move to show them to Yaxley’s cell or even offer them a cup of tea.

Hermione and Neville exchanged glances.

“Your scam to see the author not working out the way you wanted it to, kids?” the warden asked. “Go home to your parents and I won’t file a report.” He stared at Hermione’s chest again. “Or stay, if you like.”

Hermione pulled her lips together in a tight line and pointed her wand at the man. Draco waited for her to threaten him, but she didn’t. All she did was say, “_crucio” _in a calm, uninflected voice.

It took a second for the spell to hit. The warden’s mouth had time to tweak upwards in a smirk that this girl – this so-young girl – had tried to hurt him. Then his eyes went wide and he reached a hand out, clutching at the edge of his desk.

Draco remembered how it worked. At first, the moment when you could believe you’d escaped. Then the shock of pain so bad your brain wouldn’t process it. It was the sting of a hundred wasps. The back of a thousand hands swinging across your face. In a minute, the begging would start, because no one ever kept quiet. Then, if she kept it up, the begging would end, not because the victim had given up hope but because they couldn’t make their mouth move anymore. Couldn’t form words. Couldn’t shape thoughts into sounds. All that was left was primitive whimpering.

People pissed themselves. At Hogwarts, they’d all stopped drinking anything before classes with the Carrows to avoid that extra bit of humiliation.

The warden hadn’t known to do that. Draco could smell the sour tang of urine and he turned away. He was back in the classroom, head down. Don’t make eye contact because that might be a challenge. Make eye contact to distract them, weaken their focus. “Hermione,” he said, eyes still on his shoes.

She put her wand down. “Yes?” she asked, though it was hard to hear over the sounds the warden was making. Familiar sounds. Broken keening. Disbelief. Shock. No matter how many times it happened, it never got easier to hear.

“I think if you ask him about Yaxley now, he’ll be more cooperative,” Draco said.

“Is he right?” Hermione asked.

The warden picked his head off his desk. A torn bit of parchment was stuck to one cheek.

“If you’re contemplating brave defiance,” she said, “you probably don’t have it in you. Easier to tell us where he is and then forget all about us.”

“Unforgivable,” he managed to get out. “One-way ticket to –“

“Azkaban,” Neville said. “Except we’re already here. _Where is he?”_

“Not here,” the warden said. He sounded pleased to be able to thwart them. Draco pulled his eyes away from the trembling mustache and walked to the door. It had a small window that let him peer out from this sanctum to a dimmer hallway. “Out on a pass. Book thing.”

“Neville?” Hermione asked but he was already pushing open the door. Already striding away down the corridor. She sighed and pointed her wand at the warden. Draco braced himself for more torture, but what she did might have been worse. He could barely hear the “_Obliviate_,” but the way the man’s eyes became vague and confused was impossible to miss. It was a tricky spell to do, and she was clearly just as good at that one as she was with _imperio_.

God, he hated the magic that fucked with your brain. With your _self_.

He shoved her out the door, closing it behind them. “Let’s not have him start asking why we’re here,” he said when she glared at him.

. . . . . . . . .

You’ve never been here. It’s weird, really, because you’ve seen it so many times in your head. Read about it. Imagined it. Woken from visions of Bellatrix Lestrange reaching for you from behind bars, a cackle in her mouth.

You’d sort of thought it would be grimmer.

Oh, it’s dark enough, and you wouldn’t want to come here on holiday, but it’s clean. Somehow you always pictured it as filthy. You expected spiders and dirt and, well, Dementors, but all the Dementors are gone now, and either the Warden is a dab hand with cleaning charms or there’re some elves making day trips up here to sterilize the place. The hall from his office leads to the banality of a break room, and you glance in. Coffee mugs on a cheap table. Metal folding chairs.

Draco and Hermione have caught up to you by now, and Draco’s sniff is pure aristocratic disdain. Hermione is less focused on the utilitarian amenities available to workers at Azkaban and more on him. “Neville.” His name is low and urgent. “He’s not here. Yaxley is not here.”

You can hear her words. It’s not that you’ve lost the ability to process sound. You can hear Draco’s breathing, and her fussing, and the scrape of a chair somewhere across some stone floor. And you can see everything too, and smell it. You just don’t care. Yaxley isn’t here. So what. He’s one of dozens of interchangeable monsters. So, you can’t talk to him. Can’t –

You’ll find another one.

The door at the end of the staff corridor is heavy. Metal. Forbidding. Charms are burned into the surface, swirling patterns of runes and words, and you don’t care. Probably there to keep the Dementors out, let the staff enjoy their coffee and stale muffins in peace. You push it, it opens, the cells are there. Bars reaching up, cold light coming in small windows. No one bothers to heat much of this place and the air hurts your skin.

They’re suffering. Good.

Most cells are empty. Ones with residents barely react to you. Food appears in one, placed on a small table by invisible hands, but the figure lying huddled on the cell’s cot doesn’t stir. You read a placard outside the cell’s door. A name. Not one you know. Not one you care about. Funny to think there are people here who aren’t Death Eaters. There are other crimes besides terrorizing a nation. Other crimes beside torturing children. Other crimes besides reveling in genocidal madness.

There are no other crimes.

You walk on.

Empty. Empty. A person you’ve never heard of. Dolohov. Empty.

Where are they?

Carrow.

Just one of them.

Maybe that’s part of the punishment. The two of them had been almost a single person, barely distinguishable despite being different genders, despite teaching different subjects, despite having different faces. They’d been one, and now they weren’t, and you hope that separation leaves them filled with despair. This one, this Amycus, this professor of Dark Arts. You hope his soul reaches out toward a sister he’ll never see again. You hope he misses her every moment of every day. You hope it’s _agony._

You grab one bar of the cell with your hands.

“Carrow,” you say.

He sits up.

High cheekbones. Pointed nose. Thinning hair. Thinning everything, but he still has an air of dignity about him. His clothes are as neat as he can keep them. He’s not trembling under ratty blankets. His slop bucket is clean. The food on his table eaten. The fucking bastard folded his napkin and left it sitting precisely on the tray.

“Neville,” Hermione says. She’s a thousand miles away.

_Crucio_

You don’t even know you’ve said it aloud until Amycus Carrow’s body stiffens and he falls first to his knees, then to the floor. His hands manage to catch his fall. He’s suffered this before. You learn to keep a certain amount of your wits about you after a while. You learn.

_Crucio_

He spits and coughs. His body trembles and he jerks first one limb, then another.

_Crucio_

“Neville!”

“Shut her up,” you say to Draco, and you’re dimly aware he’s pulled Hermione away, put a hand over her mouth.

Amycus lets out a laugh. He picks his face up and looks at you through the bars and he _laughs_. “A prize student,” he says. Blood drips out the side of his mouth, and he raises a hand to it, touches the red, studies it. He meets your eyes. “Teachers say they don’t, but everyone has a favorite. Neville.”

_Crucio_

_Crucio_

_CRUCIO_

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a letter_

_… can’t be there on Thursday, but if you and Ron are free on Saturday, I’d love to get together. Or just you. Ron might discover that he’s got to clean out his sock drawer if he discovers plans involve getting together with me. Ever since the notice went in the paper he’s returned my owls, notes still on their legs. It’s… well, it’s fucking _childish_ is what it is, and I don’t have time for it, but all that aside, I’d love to see you. I’ll bring…._

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco knew what it was to be out of options. He’d joined Voldemort’s crusade because that was the only choice, he’d ended up formally engaged to Hermione because that was the only choice, and now he was sitting down in a café across the table from Harry Potter because to get up and walk away would be inexcusably rude.

Worse, it would make the papers.

Potter looked lousy, which was at least a little bit of satisfaction. He had bags under his eyes and a grim line to his mouth that Draco had seen in bits and flashes during their sixth year at Hogwarts, but which seemed to have taken up permanent residence. His skin was pasty, and he picked at the crisps on his plate with a desultory air.

“You aren’t going to eat those?” Hermione asked.

Potter shoved the plate over to her, and she picked up one of the crisps and popped it into her mouth. “It’s all a load of—” He glanced at Draco and that grim mouth got tighter.

“I’m not going to report you to Auror central for not liking your job,” Draco said in the meanest drawl he could summon.

Potter’s eyes flashed, which might have been the first sign of life he’d shown the whole lunch. “Bugger off, Malfoy,” he suggested.

“You volunteering to be the one I bugger?” Draco asked. He reached over and took one of the crisps off the plate, making a point of biting it in half. “I’d be game as long as… Are we flexible that way, Hermione?”

“We are not,” she said.

“Bummer,” Draco said. He licked his lips and watched Harry Potter get noticeably more uncomfortable.

“Give it a rest,” Hermione said, and with as pronounced a roll of his eyes as Draco could manage, he slouched back in his chair. Potter glared at him, but there was a smug flavor to it. _She still sides with me, you prick, _Potter seemed to be saying_. You can get engaged all you want, and send flashy announcements to the _Prophet_, but she’s my friend first._

Draco finished his beer and caught the waitress's eye. A slight raise of his glass and she nodded. If he had to sit here while Hermione and Harry Potter shared stories of work in the Ministry, he was going to need more than one drink.

“We went to some guy’s house, and he had rigged up some thing with Muggle batteries and a dictaquill to record transcript of telly shows for his mum because she was going deaf and, honestly, Hermione, it was genius, but we had to tell him it violated laws about the use of Muggle artifacts and that he had to take it down and… I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

Draco couldn’t resist. “You’re a good little errand boy for the Ministry, that’s what you’re doing.”

Potter ignored him. “Ron isn’t that keen on it either. He’s talking about leaving and going into business with George.”

“It’s not exactly taking down Dark wizards,” Hermione said sympathetically.

“No,” Harry Potter said bitterly. “The Dark Wizards are going on book tours and apparently we can’t do anything about that, either.”

“Feels familiar,” Hermione said.

“Yeah.” As the two of them looked at one another, Draco felt the weight of all their years of friendship. He couldn’t wait for this lunch to be over and for Potter to toddle back off to wherever he lived. The less Harry Potter was in his life, the better.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “We’re getting together for a drink with Neville tonight. Do you want to come?”

Where was that waitress with his second beer? She seemed to have disappeared. Draco closed his eyes and pleaded with every god that had ever been for Potter to say no. If he couldn’t get a beer, at least let Harry Potter be busy tonight licking out the ginger’s twat or reading over the press clippings of his glory days, or anything other than joining them.

“Sure,” Harry Potter said, because of course he did. “I’d love to see Neville again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for her masterful beta reading.


	24. Chapter 24

Tom Riddle was a marvelous sort of monster, unburdened by anything as dreary as self-doubt or lack of clarity about his goals or delusions. He wanted power. He wanted eternal life. He didn’t waste time lying to himself that he was doing this to help people, to improve things, for any sort of greater good.

Clear-sighted. He was _clear-sighted_, if doomed. When he burst out of his cauldron and stepped back into the world, a butterfly from its chrysalis, he was beautifully, wonderfully himself.

It is rare for a monster to be so very honest in his presentation. Usually they’re dewy-eyed and alluring and quite, quite sure they are doing the right thing.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was sitting on his couch, Ministry reports spread around her, and Draco opened his mouth. _Just talk to her_. He could hear Pansy Parkinson in his head, some sort of anti-conscience that popped up to tell him when he was being especially stupid. _Christ, you can put your cock in her but can’t tell her how you feel? That’s fucked up, Malfoy._

She glanced up. “Draco?” she asked. “You okay?”

“Just counting the hours until I get to wallow in Saint Potter’s precious company again,” he said. “Bourbon with the Chosen One. I can hardly wait.”

She rolled her eyes at him and went back to her work.

“Do you think he’ll do his one spell?” Draco couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I’d love to get disarmed by the man who ripped a wand away from the Dark Lord himself.”

“I’m sure if you ask,” Hermione said. He could tell she wasn’t even paying attention to him anymore. He could have told her anything with her mind on the papers in front of her and she would have made appropriate affirmative noises. He turned and walked out of his own living room and sat on his bed, alone. It was fine. He was fine.

. . . . . . . . .

Your hand is clutching at the skin along his shoulders. There’s scar tissue there, ridged and knobby and white against Theo’s already pale skin. His black hair is hanging down in his face, and his breath is hot against you and you can’t think of anything because the bastard has _stopped_. He lifts his face with the upturned half-smile, the blue eyes crinkling, and you are going to _kill him_.

“Remind me what we were doing?” he says.

You curl your hand tighter against his skin. “Damn it.”

“I have such memory issues,” he says, though you know he has no such thing. “Healer tells me it’s because of stress.”

“Theo,” you say, imploringly now. You don’t have plans or fears or visions of hell and if he doesn’t put his mouth back on your cock you are going to die.

He leans on his elbow on the bed and grins. He fucking _grins_ at you. “Were we talking about the import regulations on certain potions ingredients from Bulgaria and how passionate Hermione is about loosening those restrictions?”

“Theodore, _please_.”

He traces a finger in a lazy circle along your inner thigh, rests his head down and, dear god, starts talking. “Hermione was very concerned about –“

“I don’t care about her fucking import bullshit,” you manage to get out. You care about exactly one thing right now and Theo knows it – _he knows it_ – but he’s enjoying himself too much now to do anything as plebeian as mercy. Mercy is for fools and spectators. No one actually in the game ever gets anything kind.

“Politics are important,” he says in a completely false reproving tone. “If we don’t pay attention to the third subsection of part D of the latest Wizengamot bill, freedom will slip away from us and – “

“Fuck freedom.” You grab onto his hair with one hand. “Theodore Nott, I swear, if you do not put your mouth back around my cock I will – “

You’re grateful you don’t have to come up with any sort of real threat, because his lips are around you again, and you are too busy finding everything you ever wanted to say more than his name.

. . . . . . . . . .

_overheard conversation in a pub_

_First Man: … not that I approve of any of that stuff, mind._

_Second Man: buggering fucks they were_

_First Man: but it’s not as if ye can’t understan’ where they was coming from_

_Second Man: The Ministry went around bothering my old Aunt Edna ‘tother day_

_First Man: The one who makes the fruitcakes_

_Second Man: Yep. Told ‘er she couldn’t use that old telly of hers no more because she’d magicked it up_

_First Man: You gotta magick the old ones up or the reception is shite_

_Second Man: Auror didn’t care. Jus’ told her she had to pay a fine and couldn’t use it no more_

_First Man: She hex him?_

_Second Man: Too scared_

_First Man: See, I tell you, you have to read this bloke’s book. They might have been fuck all monsters under that one the Potter boy stopped, but he’s got some good ideas_

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry Potter was on time, which figured. Draco Malfoy took the bottle of wine the buggering gift to society had brought as a hostess gift and tried to make his mouth smile. It must not have worked because Potter muttered, “Yeah, glad to see you, too, Malfoy,” then looked over his shoulder for Hermione 

“Harry!” She almost flung herself across the room into his arms, and Draco wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t. He turned his back on them and went to put the bottle – an annoyingly good one – into the kitchen. When he faced them again, they were still arm in arm, now leaning against one another.

It was one thing to know that people were friends. He had lots of friends Hermione was sure to dislike. Or acquaintances, at any rate. It was another to see those years of comraderie playing out before you like the sort of thing you’d find in a novel reviewed in _Witch Weekly. _Draco flung himself down onto the couch. “The Weasley girl mind you going around hugging other women like that?” he asked in as cruel a drawl as he could manage.

Potter’s smile grew significantly tighter and the lines around his eyes got more pronounced. “I see you’re still a grade a shite.”

Hermione hit him on the arm, but it was more playful than anything else. “Harry,” she said in a warning tone Draco was sure the bloody git knew.

“Get it right,” Draco said. “I’m more grade B.”

Harry’s lips twitched.

“Are we grading things now?” Theo pushed open the door without knocking, eyed Potter, then said. “Meets Expectations.”

Draco sniggered.

Neville, coming in behind Theo, just looked tired. “Hullo, Harry,” he said, and the two of them shook hands. “Hermione sent me a quick owl letting me know you’d be here.”

“If it’s a private party,” Harry said, seemingly uncomfortable for the first time.

“No,” Neville said rapidly, then, “I mean yes, but –“

“But of course you’re welcome, Harry,” Hermione said. She tugged him toward the sofa, and Draco sprang up. He could transfigure a few things to chairs, or pour drinks, or do _anything_ other than sit next Potter as he and Hermione exchanged warm looks and reminisced about all the things they’d done together the year he’d been

(the crack of the whip)

holed up at Hogwarts making the best of it.

“Can I get anyone anything?” he asked.

Theo frowned. “A whiskey,” he said. “Neat.”

“Neville?” Draco asked.

“Just pumpkin juice, if you have it,” he said.

“I’ll have some of Harry’s wine,” Hermione said.

“Make that two,” Harry said. “We found it down in the basement at Grimmauld Place, and Molly said it was a good bottle, but I don’t know anything about wine. It could be vinegar for all I know.”

“Wasn’t Grimmauld Place a Black property?” Theo asked lazily, but his eyes were sharp and fixed firmly on Potter. Draco began pulling down cups and taking as much time as he reasonably could to open up bottles and pour.

“It was,” Harry said. “My godfather left it to me.”

“Look at us,” Theo said. “A bunch of rich boys, sitting around, getting drunk.”

Hermione coughed.

“And you,” he said. “But it’s hardly my fault you’re poor.”

Draco could hear her throw one of the books she left everywhere at him. He sniffed at the wine Harry brought, and it seemed okay so he poured himself a glass of that too. A single sip confirmed it was fine, so he carefully levitated all the drinks to their respective people, transfigured a pile of old _Daily Prophets _he’d been meaning to bin into an armchair, and sat down.

“Yes,” Theo said. “You have a very big dick, Draco.”

Harry’s cough left him choking, and Hermione hit him on the back once or twice while glaring at Theo.

“You have a different opinion?” Theo asked her.

“Would it be possible for you to not be like that?” Hermione asked.

“Not really, no,” he said.

Draco slouched lower in the chair and focused his attention on an ad for hair tonic that remained on the right armrest. It was on sale, and guaranteed to sleek your curls into slick, whatever the fuck that meant. He took another sip of his drink, then another, then a third, and wondered how long this was going to last.

“How’s life as Minister?” Harry asked, apparently determined to make this seem normal even in the face of a couple of hostile Slytherins.

“It’s good,” Hermione said with perky cheer, then slumped down. “It’s… well… we got a bill into the Wizengamot about murdering squib babies.”

“That’s good,” Harry said.

“They didn’t pass it,” she said a bit grimly. “They said the protection act we’d already rammed though was enough and this seemed more like an accusation leveled at traditional wizarding society from an outsider who meant well but didn’t realize what her enthusiasm sounded like.”

“Oh.”

“How’s life as an Auror?” Neville asked.

“About the same.” Harry took a long swallow of his wine. “I hate it.”

“How’s Ginny?”

“At training,” Harry said. His smile looked pained. “I think she’s probably not going to… she’s very focused on her Quidditch career, which is great, and which I absolutely support.”

“Dumped you, did she?” Theo asked.

“Christ, Theo,” Hermione said.

“Well, she did,” Theo said. “Or will soon.”

“We don’t all get engaged at nineteen,” Harry said.

Draco had gotten enough jabs from Harry Potter in his life to recognize the sly meanness of that when he heard it, even without the look of sudden pain on Hermione’s face. The rotten bastard had a lot of nerve coming in here and making her feel like shite about anything, especially that. “Drop it, Potter,” he said. The wine glass felt cold, and the stem might snap under the grip of his white-knuckled hand. “She’s off limits.”

Theo began to laugh, and when Draco turned to glare at him, he spread his hands, the picture of innocence. 

“So, are you all friends?” Potter asked, and he sounded helplessly confused, which, all things considered, Draco couldn’t fault him for. Theo was an asshole, Neville was hardly talking, and no one in their right mind would like him.

“We started drinking together at Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “That last year.”

“And didn’t stop.” Theo raised his glass toward Hermione and, by extension, toward Potter. “To us, may the world survive us.”

Neville let out a short laugh and laced his fingers through Theo’s. “Harry,” he said, and the cautious tone in his voice made Draco flinch. No. Not this. Don’t bring Potter in. “How much do you hate being an Auror?”

And then the confession came forth. Harry didn’t hate it. He was frustrated by it. He’d seen it as a way to do good. To go after Dark wizards. But that wasn’t what he was doing. Hermione had pointed out how corrupt the Ministry was. Even Arthur Weasley took bribes. The Aurors were like that, too, and Ginny hadn’t wanted to hear about it.

“Wait.” Theo held a hand up to interrupt Potter’s monologue. “You talked to your girlfriend about corruption in the ranks of the Aurors?”

“No,” Harry said. He flushed a little. “About her father.”

“You are a fucking idiot, do you know that?”

Harry glared at Theo. “And I suppose I’m supposed to pretend your family is squeaky clean? That the Malfoys are shining examples of –“

“No.” Theo said slowly as if speaking to a not very bright child. “You are supposed to pay enough attention to the way the girl you are fucking reacts to things to know not to tell her that her father’s a crook.”

“Or boy,” Neville said.

Theo ran his eyes over Harry. “You up for boys, so to speak?”

Harry turned to Hermione, clearly looking for help. “It was sort of stupid to tell Ginny about her father,” she said apologetically. “You know how she and Ron idolize him.”

Harry was so nonplussed by that that Draco began to laugh. “I think he wants to know if you think he might be gay,” he said. “Potter? This is a safe space. You can tell us who you really are.”

“You first,” Harry snapped.

“I’m a former Death Eater, I’m engaged to your best friend, and I don’t like you,” Draco said. “Oh, and now and again, I suck a little cock. Happy now?”

“Oh my god,” Hermione said. “Draco. What the fuck?”

“Well, he asked,” Draco said.

“This is going splendidly,” Theo said. “Someone remind me why we’re torturing ourselves?”

“Because we’re trying to recruit him,” Hermione said with a sharp tone to her voice.

“Recruit me to what?” Harry asked.

A silence fell over the room and Draco could almost see the humor leech away. They’d been snapping at one another, but it had been relatively good natured. Now, Neville’s hand stole to his wand, and Theo shifted slightly to gain access to his. Draco didn’t know what they thought they’d do. Whatever else his problems were – and Draco was sure they were legion – no one who had taken down Voldemort was going to be stopped by a couple of half-baked would-be revolutionaries.

“We’re trying to make sure another dark wizard doesn’t rise up,” Hermione said rapidly. “You know it will happen. People just… they like to be told what to do, and how to think, and this society -- I mean, I know Dumbledore set you up to think of it as perfect because it was so much better than your aunt and uncle -- but it has a lot of problems.”

“Problems like what?” Harry asked slowly.

“Like blood-prejudice,” Draco said.

Harry turned those green eyes on him and studied him for a long moment. “I guess you would know about that, Malfoy,” he said.

“I guess I would.”

“And despising anyone without magic,” Hermione said. “Like squibs and Muggles.”

“Like Filch,” Harry said.

Theo snorted. “There were plenty of reasons to hate him that had nothing to do with his magic issues.”

Draco’s eyes stole to the rings of scar tissue around Neville’s wrists. Filch was

(laughing)

better off dead.

Harry turned to the woman sitting next to him on the couch, the Minister for Magic, someone who’d been one of his closest friends since they’d been children. Draco could see it on his face when he put it together.

“Hermione,” he said. “What did you do to Filch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multitudinuous thanks to the ever-brilliant OlivieBlake for beta reading!


	25. Chapter 25

You half expect her to make a joke out of it while telling the absolute truth She’s done it before – you’ve rather admired that technique, to be honest -- but when Harry Potter asks her what she did to Filch, Hermione Granger just tells him without any attempt to misdirect or hide or anything at all.

“I killed him,” she said. Her mouth turns up in a small smile. “Kedavra. And it was fucking satisfying. Plan to take me in?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Harry sets his wine glass down, then picks it up and drains the whole thing. Theo takes it without a word and goes to the kitchen to fill it, but you can see he never quite turns his back on Harry. 

Harry, who opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to ask, “Where is he?”

“Chamber of Secrets.”

He looks, of all things, annoyed. “How?”

Hermione hisses out a series of what you can only assume are commands in parseltongue. It’s disgusting to hear. You want to rub at your ears and make it go away. That was how Voldemort talked and you don’t want to a reminder.

Harry just shrugs, unfazed. “I can’t understand it anymore, but I assume that’s the way in.”

“Memorized it during the war,” she says.

“Handy.”

“It was.”

Harry takes the glass Theo hands him and drains it. Then he says in a high-pitched falsetto, “Or worse, expelled.”

Hermione goggles at him, then starts to laugh. You look from one to the other. Harry Potter doesn’t smile a lot. He has a sharp grin that mimics friendliness without inviting people in, but right now he’s really, truly smiling as he and Hermione share some joke that locks the rest of you out. You shouldn’t be upset. You should be glad, because Harry Potter going off to the Ministry to turn you all in would have been a problem. You don’t think Hermione would have been on board with killing him, so what would you have done? Erased his memory and hope that stuck? But now you don’t have to worry about any of that because he’s laughing and you should be happy and pleased and relieved. Instead you feel like you did at twelve when no one included in you much of anything.

God, you’re such an arsehole.

You need to grow up.

“So, everything is fine?” Theo asks. “Because, gotta be honest here, I wasn’t looking forward to getting shipped off to Azkaban.”

“Yeah.” Harry Potter wipes a tear away from his eye, and sighs. “I should report it, but – “

“He _tortured students,_” Hermione says.

“Yeah,” Harry says again. He looks down at his hands. You wonder if he’s contemplating how clean they are. How much being the _chosen one_ instead of the spare has saved him. Not that being chosen was so great but, in the end, he still doesn’t have blood on his hands. Even Voldemort died from little more than a misfired wand.

“So, do you even care what’s going on?” Draco asked.

“You mean other than the bit about you sucking cock?”

Draco very obviously drops his eyes to the crotch of Harry’s trousers and lets them linger there long enough for everyone to be uncomfortable. “Not yours,” he says at last. “Not even if you ask very nicely.”

“How about Voldemort’s?” Harry asks.

“He didn’t come back with a nose,” Theo says. “I doubt he managed a functioning penis. Can we move on from your little pissing contest? It’s dull to play games the rest of us have to watch.”

Harry turns and looks at Theo. Theo, whose hand is on your thigh. Theo, whose father was a Death Eater. “Are you always like this?” he asks. He meets your eyes when Theo doesn’t condescend to answer. “You _like _this.”

“It’s the cock sucking,” Theo says to that. “I have gifts.”

It’s so much more than that, but you don’t want to justify yourself to this hero. You don’t _have_ to justify yourself to this hero. And then you really don’t, because he stands up and fumbles for his wand. “Thanks for inviting me, Hermione. Nice to see you, Nev. I think… I think I’d better forget all about this.”

He lets himself out.

“Well,” Theo says. “I like him.”

You scowl, then say to Hermione, “Next time, ask.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Screaming.

Draco stood and tried to cover his ears because there was so much _screaming,_ but his hands wouldn’t move. The air had become thick, like water. No, worse. The voice again. Pain. _Agony_. He knew the sound. They all did, every Hogwarts student. Every Death Eater, too. Crucio was the bread and butter of their lives. The cornerstone of their building. The rock on which they built their church.

The wand was in his hand, and he was the one pointing it, and his mouth moved even though he didn’t want it to. He wasn’t doing this. He _wasn’t_, but he couldn’t stop himself.

_Crucio._

_Crucio._

_Crucio._

Pansy Parkinson looked up at him from the floor of Azkaban and smiled, blood dripping from the corner of one mouth. It’s the only red thing in a black and white world. “You always were a clever student,” she said.

“I’m not doing this,” he said, even as the wand grew warm in his hand. “She’s making me.”

Pansy laughed, and blood sprayed toward him. “No, she’s not. But nice excuse, Malfoy.”

Nice excuse.

This time he meant it. “_Crucio_!”

She spasmed on the floor, then screamed, and that woke him up and the screaming was him.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from The Daily Prophet Non-Fiction Best Sellers_

_2 (5) Contrition, by Corban Yaxley (Obscurial Books) A former Death Eater reflects on his time in the company of He Who Must Not Be Named and offers a path for the future._

_3 (1) Werewolves Among Us, by Joyce Selwyn (Niffler-Random Cottage) The tragic story of a young woman’s descent into madness as she struggles with the after-effects of a werewolf bite._

_4 These Girls Play Rough, by Amberlyn Marie (Hogwarts Press) The Holyhead Harpies and their quest for Quidditch domination, including exclusive interview with Ginevra Weasley, war heroine._

_. . . . . . . ._

Draco hadn’t even found the teal parlour uncomfortable before today. It had tall windows with deep, cushioned seats, perfect for a small boy to hide in. It had furniture with curvy legs and intricate carving, perfect for doing rubbings of. It had a piano, where he had loved to sit and tell himself stories, plunking out low notes for the villains and high notes for the fairies.

Of course, he wasn’t six anymore.

Draco perched on the edge of one of the settees and forced a smile for his mother. Neville surely knew this visit wasn’t about _catching up with some of your school chums _the way Narcissa had claimed, but he settled down on a chair and took a cup tea of from an elf without the slightest sign of discomfort.

Theo knew the Malfoys, of course. He’d been over here as a child, played in this very room. He kissed Narcissa on both cheeks and asked what sort of Dark Magic she was using to hold back aging, pulling a delighted laugh from a woman who looked far older after the war than she had before. Trauma aged people, and even when you’d put the monsters to bed, the lines stayed on your face.

Hermione sat next to him. The illusion they were close mustn’t be breached in front of the people who could expose all of them. And she’d killed Filch when he’d laughed. Draco didn’t want her to end up in Azkaban for that, so he took her hand. Her skin against his felt like a promise and he had to keep himself from yanking his fingers free again. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t want her touch to feel like coming home.

“You’re all so young,” Narcissa said, a natural segue from Theo’s wholly appropriate comment. She poured a little milk into her tea and stirred. The clink of her spoon against the porcelain was painfully loud in a room where the silence was uncomfortable, but she made no attempt at small talk until she’d picked up her tea, taken a sip, and set it back down again. “Hermione, you sweet girl, how are you finding life at the Ministry?”

“We’re getting along,” Hermione said. “We’ve launched several – “

Narcissa held her hand up and, in the face of that rebuke, Hermione fell silent. “I’m sure your plans are all wonderful,” Narcissa said. “You’re a smart girl, and you’re keeping them all dazzled with fireworks and rainbows. But the exact composition of the fireworks is,” she paused and her mouth twisted into a delicate moue. “Uninteresting.”

“Mother,” Draco said helplessly.

“What I want to talk about is your wedding.”

“Our wedding,” Hermione said slowly.

“Yes.” Narcissa picked up a small bell, rang it, and Draco wanted to bury his face in his hands. This was so much worse than he had feared. “I had Lucius pick up a few samples for me –“

“Samples?”

“Fabric samples,” Narcissa said, as though she were speaking to a rather dull child. “Try to keep up. You need to select your dress, and then we’ll organize the rest of the design around that. Neville, do you prefer to be Draco’s best man or Hermione’s... Well, maid of honor is quite the wrong term, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Draco said through gritted teeth.

“I was unaware I’d asked Neville to be my attendant,” Hermione said.

Narcissa’s smile would have frightened geese. “Then I’m happy to clear that up.”

The door opened and Lucius came in, a large book in his hand. Draco wasn’t sure whether he was relieved that something – anything – had interrupted the fight brewing between his mother and Hermione, or whether he should be more terrified that his father looked positively radiant. He was in on whatever this was, and he liked it.

He set the large volume on the table closest to Hermione then sat near his wife, silently helping himself to tea.

Narcissa flicked her fingers toward the book and the pages flipped open to reveal a photograph of a witch wearing a dress next to a fabric sample. The model turned and preened in a dress that wouldn’t suit any woman who’d even thought about having a curve, and Hermione reached over and manually turned the page. “Not that one,” she said. 

“Yes.” Narcissa flicked through several more pages, then left the book open to a dress that even Draco, who would freely admit he knew very little about women’s clothing, could see would look ravishing on Hermione. “The problem is, of course, that you are an outsider.”

Hermione bristled, but Narcissa held her hand up again. “Hear me out. You are smart, and a heroine, and you’ve inserted yourself into the halls of power with a neatness that Voldemort would envy, but just asking about Neville – and I saw your grandmother at Madam Malkin’s the other day, Neville, she looked very nice and told me to say hullo if I saw you – as your attendant shows how little you know.”

“In what sense?” Hermione asked in a low and dangerous voice.

“Well, he’s really the power behind your little coup, isn’t he? I mean, you’re a good girl, but you think it’s all done with laws and bills and -- ” She turned another page of the book. “How about that one?”

Hermione flipped back to the previous page. “That one,” she said. “And Ginny will be my attendant.”

“No,” Narcissa said. “She will not.”

Hermione tensed beside him; Draco began to be afraid she’d throw her tea in his mother’s face. “Mother,” he said, hating this with every cell in his body. “I think Hermione should pick out her own maid of honor.”

“Ginevra Weasley is on the verge of ending her relationship with Harry Potter, who, I assume, you plan to invite. People on the edge of breaking up often do at weddings, and often with substantial, unnecessary dramatics. Her fireworks can stay on the road with the Harpies and send you an appropriate gift with an apology letter about how she can’t make it.”

“And how do you plan to arrange that?”

Narcissa tipped her head to the side. “It’s not as if you two are really friends,” she said. “Not close enough that she’ll leave her Quidditch training for you. You do know that, right?”

Draco thought he had learned to read Hermione fairly well. Even her smallest twitches and frowns had become a grammar he knew, and by the way she slouched for a tiny moment before pulling herself back up he could tell she knew about Ginny.

“I’d rather have Neville and Theo anyway,” he said, squeezing her hand. “They’re a couple, and that always looks nice in a best man and mai… bridal attendant.”

“Neville,” Hermione ground out. “Would you do me the honor of being my bridal attendant?”

Neville looked like he wanted to crawl under a chair and Draco didn’t blame him. “I’d be honored,” he said.

“Good.” Hermione stood up and pointed at the gown on the open page. “That one. Madam Malkin’s has my measurements.”

“Would you like to schedule time to go over the menu?” Narcissa asked.

Hermione’s face pulled into a tight line. “Clearly,” she said, “You have this all under control. Do what you want. Make sure I know the date so I can have my secretary clear my schedule.”

Neville stood up. “I think we should be going now,” he said.

Draco eyed his mother. There were a few things he needed to say, but he ought to do it in private. “I’ll catch up,” he said. “Pick up some Ogden’s on the way home, would you Hermione?”

“I’d be happy to,” she said, and then they were gone.

Draco slouched back and stared at his parents.

“Well,” Narcissa said. “I think that went well.”

“You do,” Draco said. “You think that counts as _well_?”

“Well, she could have refused,” Lucius pointed out. “She is the Minister. It would be tricky to make her do something. And I understand she has a knack for the Imperius curse.”

Draco slouched at that. It was true. She did. He started to fall into his usual wallowing that there was no real way to tell if she’d cursed him, when he glanced at his father. Lucius Malfoy was an opportunist of the worst sort, but he’d done his fair share of Dark Magic, and he knew what the imperius curse looked like when he saw it. That knack was why Draco was in the middle of wedding planning to begin with.

“Father,” he said slowly.

Lucius raised his brows in an expression Draco had seen more than once in his own mirror.

“You can tell when someone’s been imperiused, can’t you?”

Lucius made a little hmming sound, then said, “It depends. If it’s on ongoing thing, like what your fiancée did to the members of the Wizengamot, then yes. It lurks behind the eyes as a spot of vagueness. But you can curse someone to do a specific task – pick up the milk, say – and once that was done the curse would be completed and thus, undetectable.”

Draco nodded. “Am I cursed?” he asked.

Lucius let out a small laugh but took long enough to study Draco’s face he began to be very frightened of what the answer would be. Then his father said, simply, “No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Draco stood up, kissed his mother on the cheek, and said, “Plan a wedding cake that doesn’t taste like sawdust, would you?”

“Of course,” Narcissa said.

Draco let himself out and apparated home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to Olivie Blake, who keeps me from embarrassing myself with her beta reading!


	26. Chapter 26

She was drinking when he got there. Well, they all were. Draco had no idea when Theo had joined the party. Maybe Neville flooed him the moment they escaped his parents. He didn’t care. He opened the door to his flat – _his fucking flat, goddammit_ – and said, “Get out.”

Theo opened his mouth to say something rude, took in the storm brewing on Draco’s face, grabbed his jacket, and left without doing more than touching Neville on the arm. Granger stood to go too, and Draco put his hand on her chest. “Not you,” he said.

The door had barely clicked shut when she said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Draco crossed his arms and stared at her. He’d been a whirlwind since his father had told him he had no signs of being Imperiused. All the things he felt were real. They were his. The lust. The longing. The sense of being home.

The resentment, too, which wasn’t fair. Or not wholly fair. Or maybe it was. He didn’t fucking know. He was a person about to explode, and she was a convenient target for rage and regret and guilt and a thousand other things he couldn’t begin to sort out.

“Back at Hogwarts when I was teaching you how to do the _Imperius_, you crossed a line,” he said. She stared at him blankly, and as soon as he realized she had no idea what he was talking about, he regretted everything. Every word. Every silence. He’d fucked it all up, and wasn’t that just typical. Now that he’d started, he wished he hadn’t. In fact, he’d rather do almost anything than have this conversation, but too late now. Now that he’d brought it up she’d keep digging and digging until he’d purged his system of all this blame. “When you cursed me to rub your shoulders,” he said. “That was… it was a _violation.”_

“It’s all a violation,” she said. Her blankness was shifting to confusion. “Mind magic is all… it’s horrible. You break people. They don’t come back.”

Like her parents, Draco thought, but what came out of his mouth was, “And you did it to me.”

“In the context of a lesson,” Hermione said, a little too calmly. He knew her well enough to know she was the most dangerous when she wasn’t emotional. An unemotional Hermione hid bodies. “In the context of you knowing _exactly_ what we were doing, and in the context of me telling you _immediately _afterward.”

This was her fault. It wasn’t his. She’d done this, not him. “It was still… you pulled us into it. Not sending a recipe, or making me want to eat an orange, but us. Our… life.”

“Our relationship?” She raised her brows in a way he recognized all too well. It was the sneering look. The supercilious look. It was his look.

“Yeah,” he said. It made him feel stupid and vulnerable to say it out loud, and if there was anything Draco hated, it was that. He’d rather face down another day with Voldemort than have a conversation about _feelings_. About their _relationship. _About how _angry he was at her_.

How hurt.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” Hermione said slowly. “If you had let me know it existed, I wouldn’t have.”

“You should have known.” God, it sounded stupid to even say it out loud, but here he was, still talking. Draco crossed the room to the bottle of whiskey Neville had left open on the counter. “_Accio_ glass.” Pour. Swallow. Pour again. “You should have known.” The same words again. No less stupid this time.

“Well, I’m not a legilimens,” Hermione said. “Mind reading is not one of my talents.”

“Smartest witch of our year. It should be.”

She’d followed him, and she set a careful hand on his shoulder. “Is that why you… why you pulled away from me? Why you’ve been so… so distant?”

“Oh, you noticed that?” Draco jerked himself away from her and poured a third drink. When this hit him, he was going to be sorry. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d enjoy having a spine for once, even if it was made of whiskey and bravado. “I thought it had gone right over your pretty little head.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Hermione said, and now that infuriating forced calm of hers was sliding away and she was having to grit her teeth to keep her voice down. “And I’ve said I was sorry, but that was almost a year ago.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Well, I couldn’t be sure you hadn’t done it again.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” The alcohol was starting to hit, or maybe he’d just worked himself up into being able to say it all on his own. “I thought you might still be cursing me into liking you. Into _wanting_ you.”

Hermione very calmly went to the cupboard, opened the doors, and pulled down a heavy glass. They were weighted, these glasses, so they’d feel good in your hands when you were drinking. Its twin felt good in his hand as he was drinking now. The Malfoys always had the best. Money did that for you. His mother had decorated a lovely flat and purchased lovely glasses, and now she was going to plan a perfectly lovely wedding.

Hermione pulled her arm back and threw the glass right at his head. Draco realized what she was planning a moment too late, and ducked, but not far enough. The glass brushed against his ear as it went sailing by. The sound of it hitting the wall was loud in the room, as was the tinkling waterfall of all the broken shards of glass crashing down and coming to rest on the floor.

“You crazy bitch,” he said, one hand at his ear. “What the _fuck_ was that for?”

“You thought I was cursing you,” Hermione said in a very low voice. “You thought any inconvenient feelings you had for me – even any _lust_ – were because I was twiddling around in your brain to make you feel them.”

He’d never seen her look so angry.

She reached down to her waist for the wand she wasn’t, thank god, wearing. Before she could summon it, he _accioed_ it from across the room. “Looking for this?” he asked. “Planning to curse me with it, were you?”

“Fuck you, you miserable, rotten, no-good,” she seemed to struggle to find the right words. What she finally came up with made him laugh. “_Ferret._”

His shock of laughter at that only infuriated her still more. “You thought I would curse you,” she said, or maybe he should call it yelled – or even screamed – because her volume had risen – was still rising – and Draco took a careful step away from her, her wand tightly in his grip. “You thought I was the sort of person who would _curse you_ into liking me.”

“Well,” he said.

“Oh, you’ve said enough.” She grabbed a book off a table and threw that at him. “You fucking bastard. It couldn’t possibly be that you _actually liked me_, oh no. Not you. Not the _mudblood_.”

Draco flinched.

“It had to be my devious spells tricking you into having feelings.”

“Well, you’d done it once,” he said, suddenly realizing how pathetic that sounded. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to do it again?”

Another book sailed through the air toward him. “You might have asked,” she said. “You might have considered for _one single moment_ that I wasn’t some kind of evil, dark witch, but no. Why would you do something as reasonable as that?”

Draco edged himself further away from her.

“How did you finally decide I wasn’t some evil, mind-abusing monster?”

“I asked my father,” Draco said. This was going so badly. This was going somehow a thousand times worse than he had imagined. He hadn’t pictured her getting angry at him, much less this angry. She was supposed to apologize for cursing him, and then he would feel better, and –

“You _asked your father_,” Hermione repeated, the words almost a taunt.

Draco could hear the echo of all the times he’d said his father would hear about something as a boy. He’d been the worst sort of tattle-tale until Voldemort. That had taught him to keep his mouth sealed and never tell anyone anything. Never ask anything. Questions got you

(screaming)

(the taste of shoe leather)

in trouble. It was always best to keep your mouth closed and let things play out. Or, almost always.

“And what did dear Lucius have to say?” Hermione asked.

“He said I didn’t show any signs of having been _Imperiused._”

“And well, isn’t that ducky?”

“But it’s proof,” he said, desperate now, and maybe more than a little drunk. “I do like you, I do want you, I’m just – “

Hermione walked up to him, every slap of her shoe loud on the wood floors, leaned in his face and said, “Too fucking bad.” She reached down and snatched her wand out of his hand, then slapped him across the face so hard he staggered back from the force of the blow. “You were so happy to have a little sham relationship. Something to look good for the papers, something to keep your parents on our side.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Well, that’s just what you’ve got now. Make it look good for the public, _Malfoy_, and get used to a cold, lonely bed because if I catch you cheating, I’ll have every excuse to unload your sorry arse, and any attempt by your parents to smear me after that as a dark witch who _Imperiused _the Wizengamot will look like nothing so much as a pathetic attempt by a bunch of Death Eaters to get even with the witch who dumped their no-good son.”

The click of the door as she closed it behind her was very loud, as was the sound of her heels stalking away.

Draco poured himself another drink. And another. And another.

. . . . . . . . .

Harry doesn’t turn you in. You know that because Aurors haven’t shown up on your doorstep. But Harry isn’t a man who does shades of grey, either, so you don’t know what’s going on in his head. You’d always appreciated his black and white view of the world. Sometimes, it carried you through a torture session. This was the _right thing_ to do. It was hard and awful and grueling but it was morally correct. Your grandmother would be proud of you for being more like Harry Potter, who would do the _right thing_. Your parents would do the _right thing._

Snape would do the right thing.

You see him sometimes in your dreams. The hooked nose. The lanky black hair. He’s standing there, heavy book in his hands. “You are a dreadful excuse for a wizard, Longbottom. Incompetent. Unworthy. Pathetic.”

Then he shifts, features melting until it’s Amycus Carrow. “Everyone has a favorite, Neville.”

And you wake up screaming.

. . . . . . . . . .

_excerpt from a letter_

_… hope you’ll come. It’s going to be some hideously formal thing. Narcissa Malfoy has taken over the whole event. I swear, Harry, I keep expecting to get an owl delivering me lingerie she’s picked out because in her opinion I’m not competent enough pick out a fucking bra. I told her I wanted chocolate cake and she told me – get this – no one has chocolate cake at a wedding. So it’ll be that same usual white cake that tastes like dust and sugar. All style and no substance anyone would want, kind of like the marriage. I guess it’s a good symbol. Maybe dear, sweet Narcissa knows what she’s doing after all._

_But I do want you there. Everything is horrible, and I’m so afraid I’m going to fail at the Ministry, and, oh god, someone was actually reading Yaxley’s fucking book in the lunchroom and it was all I could do not to yank it out of their hands and hit them with it. But this wedding will be a little less awful if you’re there, so please tell me…_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Naturally, the very last person Draco wanted to see was the one sitting in the otherwise empty café. If the place had been full, he could have left without causing a scene, but as it was he couldn’t even not acknowledge Harry Potter. A curt nod should have been enough, but the bastard jerked his own head toward a chair at his table, and there was nothing for Draco to do but grit his teeth and sit down.

“Your wedding is soon,” Potter said. “You nervous?”

Draco snorted. Harry Potter couldn’t possibly expect him to share his deepest feelings over Earl Grey and biscuits. “What do you want?”

Potter shrugged, but he also shoved over the _Daily Prophet_.

“Not getting the press you want?” Draco asked. “Times are tough for the Chosen One, aren’t they?”

“Read it,” Potter said.

Draco waited until he’d ordered tea; watching Potter try to contain his irritation was a small pleasure. Eventually, though, he couldn’t put it off without being obviously churlish, so he picked up the paper. “Sleekeazy on sale,” he said. He glanced over the top to smirk at Potter. “Times really are tough, aren’t they? Sales down?”

“The article,” Potter said through gritted teeth. “And my grandparents sold that off. I don’t run a hair products company.”

Draco let his eyes linger on Harry’s black curls. His own hair was already beginning to show signs of thinning, and he’d be using discrete magic to thicken and replace it within a few years. Potter, though, had enviably thick hair. Thick and messy. “Obviously,” he said.

“Do you need me to read it out loud to you?” Potter asked.

Bastard. Draco skimmed the article, then read it again more slowly. “This is a joke,” he said flatly when he was done. He put the paper back down. “New Knights of Walpurgis groups starting up? A vibrant young movement within the wizarding community?”

“Planning on joining?” Potter asked.

It was all Draco could do not to lunge across the table and throttle the savior of the wizarding world. “I was forcibly inducted into their last popular movement,” he said in as low a voice as he could. “I did things… I would love to give you nightmares by repeating them, Potter, but I don’t want to remember –

(shoe leather)

(the face of a second year as Draco demonstrated _Crucio_ on him for the class)

(Filch laughing)

– them myself, so you get a pass.”

Potter nodded. “Good to know,” he said. “I do have one other thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, though.”

“What?”

“When Ron and I went up to Hogwarts to look for Filch, you stalked me all day.”

“It’s the scar on your forehead. I can’t look away.”

“Right.” Potter met his eyes. “You knew where he was, didn’t you?”

“Helped her put him there.”

“What were you planning to do if I found him?”

Draco shrugged. “Warn her. Give her time to run.”

Harry’s eyes measured him for a moment that was long enough to be uncomfortable, then he reached across the table and took the _Prophet_ back. “I’ll see you at your wedding, Malfoy.”

Great. Draco made himself smile. “Won’t that be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love to OlivieBlake, who keeps me on the straight and narrow.


	27. Chapter 27

The book is in the front of the window. The _front_. It’s sitting there, the title in big gold letters.

_Contrition_

God, what a joke. He’s not _contrite_. Corban Yaxley loved every moment of grinding people under his heel, of seeing people afraid, of _hurting_ them.

You have to enjoy it. You have to _mean_ it. He did. Draco’s crazy aunt did. They all did. The Carrows didn’t hurt you for your own good, or to teach you a lesson, or to do anything except revel in the way it took them less than a month for students to look away. To not meet their eyes. To bow their heads and scurry by, hoping to go unnoticed.

It was so much easier to try and go unnoticed.

A smart person goes unnoticed.

_You never learn_, Alecto Carrow would say as she tightened the shackles around your wrist. _Such a tragedy that education is lost on you._

_We owe it to the boy to try again, _her brother would say, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. _We’re teachers now, ‘lecto. We have to make sure they all learn their lessons._

The crack of the whip in the air.

_Everyone has a favorite._ His voice whispers in your head, oily and sly and oozing its way down into your soul. You flinch, expecting the strike of the leather against your skin, but all that happens is a proper matron, a good witch in a pointed hat with purple striped stockings and a small child by the hand, stops in front of the shop window and considers the book so lovingly set out on display.

You want to pick up a rock and hurl it through the plate glass.

Another witch goes by. Muggle-born. You can tell by the clothes. Hermione dresses that way. Smart skirts and clever heels. She carries a neat handbag instead of a broom. You never would have thought to spot signs until this past year, but now that you think about it, what to look for is obvious. She glances at the book. Her eyes narrow, and her mouth twists, and she walks a little more quickly.

She meets your eyes as she goes past. You twist your mouth and there’s a moment -- just a moment -- where you and this stranger are in perfect, disgusted agreement.

Then it’s gone.

If she wants to be unnoticed, she’ll have to get a proper witch’s hat, you think to yourself. Something tall and pointed that droops a bit. Maybe a few stuffed mice as decorations.

If you want to go unnoticed, you won’t throw a rock.

You learned. The Carrows might enjoy knowing their lessons didn’t go to waste. You’ll have to tell Amycus next time you see him. You stay unnoticed, head down, and walk past the window where three witches are now chatting, eyes on the book.

You bend down to fumble with a shoelace.

_Imperius_.

You aren’t as good at it as Hermione, but one of the witches is vulnerable. She’s afraid she doesn’t belong. Her aunt was a squib. What if her children are too? It doesn’t take much to make her hate Corban Yaxley. To see him and his book as symbols of everything she’s afraid of. You stand up and step away as their argument starts. Their voices raise. You’re a half-block away and you can hear them, more vehement now. Angrier.

And you’re unnoticed.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron Weasley is not going to the wedding. Whether to invite him had briefly stymied even Narcissa Malfoy’s social acumen, but at last she decided she couldn’t _not_ invite one of the so-called ‘golden trio.’ Ridiculous name, really, and she doesn’t approve, but the public latches on to things like little dogs with plants you just put in and in the end, it’s not worth fighting.

Narcissa Malfoy does not like dogs. Or the public. Or the Weasleys, who she sees as clearly at fault for their own poverty. Too many children. Too little ambition. And it wasn’t as if they were honorable, for all that they fought alongside Dumbledore. Twice.

That last bit sticks in her craw a bit. She might be able to forgive them for being poor. She might even be able to be gracious about it, and talk about old-fashioned values, and family, and how all their children are such strong witches and wizards, but they committed the unforgivable sin of being right and that – _that_ – she shall never get past.

But she owls the wretched boy an invitation anyway, and his sister as well, and even the older one who works in the Ministry. Not the parents. God, no. There are things she can’t bring herself to do. But Ronald and Ginevra and Percy all receive invitations.

Percy RSVPs yes within hours. He doesn’t even think twice. Hermione is the _Minister. _What sort of _fool_ casts away a connection to a woman with that much power who’s also an old friend of the family?

Ginny feels guilty that she doesn’t want to go, so she shoves the invitation in a drawer until the last minute, then scrawls a quick apology and a promise to take Hermione out to Diagon Alley to pick a present that suits her best, knowing she’ll never really get around to it.

Narcissa marked her as a no before even sending the owl, so this presents no problem to the caterer’s headcount.

Ron stares at the invitation, first flabbergasted, then furious. She’s really going to do it. She’s going to marry _Malfoy_. He rips the invite to shreds, throws it in an envelope, and sends it back. Then he finds the first willing girl in a pub – and he’s a war hero so there are _lots_ of willing girls in pubs – and spends the night getting steadily drunker and, thanks to a few keep-it-up potions, fucking his brains out. By 3AM his partner is so drunk herself she doesn’t notice he calls her Hermione as he comes into her.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco slouched. Had been slouching. Planned to stay in this slouch until his very bones welded themselves together. Theo’s company – unasked for and certainly unwanted – did nothing to change this. Theo knew where things were, could help himself to a drink. Could make himself a bloody omelet if that was what tickled his arsehole fancy, but Draco did not intend to get up, to mix a drink, to do anything.

“Do you even wank off in that chair?” Theo asked about three hours into his visit.

Draco grunted.

“Because,” Theo pressed inexorably on, “if you do, mate, I have to tell you, it’s going to destroy the upholstery.”

Of the things in his life Draco was able to muster concern for, the state of his upholstery was not one of them. Still, that begged a certain question. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“It talks,” Theo said with false shock. “Does it bathe, too?”

“Fuck you.” 

“Two sentences after one another.” Theo clutched at his chest and staggered to the sofa, where he sat down with a dramatic thud. “I may die from the excitement.”

“Do you plan on leaving any time soon?”

“Not until I know you don’t plan to sit there until you’ve merged with the fabric.”

“Make yourself comfortable, then,” Draco muttered, and slouched with more determination back into his chair. The problem with slouching, though, is that as soon as you are doing it with intent, it ceases to become slouching and, bit by bit, Draco straightened up. He wanted a drink, or a shower, or to shove his cock into something and stop thinking about anything other than raw sensation.

“You’re getting married in, oh, eighteen hours,” Theo said, casting a quick _tempus_ charm. He adjusted it to a countdown and the red numbers hovered in the air, marching toward 0. Draco would have been hard put to have come up with anything more depressing. “Anything you want to talk about between now and then?” Theo asked in a perky voice that almost covered his real concern. “Contraception charms? How to please a woman in bed? Why you’ve barely come out of your flat in several weeks?”

“How the hell would you know how to please a woman?” Draco asked.

“Books,” Theo said. “There’s an illustrated manual, _Ogden’s Guide to Everything Amorous_, and, rather rudely, it doesn’t restrict itself to things of interest to me.”

“That’s fabulous.”

“Did you know approximately 75% of the clitoris is concealed?”

“Theo.”

“And it grows to as much as eight times its original size, most of that after a woman reaches menopause.”

“Would you _stop?_”

Theo smiled his most angelic smile and said, “I thought you were interested in learning things. Always grinding away at Hogwarts, worried about who had the best marks.”

“We’re not at Hogwarts anymore.”

“And Hermione might appreciate a lover who treats her as more than a place to shove his cock.”

Draco sank into the chair and closed his eyes. Hermione was unlikely to ever allow him near her in private again. Maybe once to consummate the damn marriage but after that? He could be the world’s foremost expert on female pleasure, and she wouldn’t care.

“And there’s the issue,” Theo said softly. “What happened?”

Nothing. Everything. “Go away, Theo,” was all Draco said.

But Theo showed no signs of planning on doing that anytime soon, so – telling himself this was just to make the blighted bugger _leave_ – Draco opened his mouth and shared the whole story. The back rub. The knowledge he wouldn’t be able to tell if she did it again. The fear. His father inadvertently telling him he’d been wrong. The fight.

“Well,” Theo said when he was done.

“You think I’m an idiot,” Draco said. He waited for Theo to lecture him on _trust_ and _how could he think that_ and _what sort of person_. He’d gotten the lecture from Granger, and he relived it every night in his head, so he was pretty solid on the general flow of it by now.

Instead, Theo said, “Well, yes, but not about that.”

Draco was jolted to sitting upright. “What?”

Theo shrugged. “It was a pretty reasonable concern, I think. It’s not as if you two were friends, and you don’t know how to have a straightforward conversation and, really, if she were cursing you, it’s not like she’d admit it if you asked.”

“So, I’m right?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “It’s a hell of a thing to accuse someone of brainwashing you in order to get laid. She’s not wrong to be pissed as hell.”

“So, I’m wrong.”

“You’re fucking complicated,” Theo said. “And so is she, and the wedding is in –” He glanced at the countdown. “A bit over seventeen hours. So get up, pull yourself together, and remember that being married can’t possibly be as bad as being a Death Eater.”

Draco hoped his glare was as sour as his stomach.

Theo’s smile was sympathetic. “You survived the first. You’ll survive this. Just remember how very, very much you don’t want to go to Azkaban for being complicit in _imperius_-ing half the Wizengamot to fix the election, and how unless we keep your parents on our side, your father might be stupid enough to try to throw Hermione under the bus.”

“Which will take all of us down,” Draco said. He knew the reasons he was doing this. And they were all true; all absolutely, utterly true. And they were all false. But how did you tell someone you loved her, were only truly happy in her company, that you woke wanting to see her smile, when you’d screwed everything up as badly as he had?

You didn’t.

At least this way he’d still have her in his life.

. . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes the flat seems to close in around you. Nothing is yours. Theo pays for the flat. Theo pays for the food. Theo. Theo. Theo. And London is so dark and grimy. Even the parks are filled with people and they’re talking. Always talking. You can do a charm to make yourself effectively unseen. But you can’t make them invisible.

You need to be away.

You need plants, and the greenhouses, and solitude before you start to scream.

So, you go home.

Not home. Home is your flat with Theo. You go to your grandmother’s. She’s not home. This is her bridge morning, and even a society wedding in the afternoon won’t keep her from meeting with the other witches to play cards and talk about the world. But, even without her home, there is evidence of her all around. This is her house, filled with her things, filled with her life. And yours. There is the window Algie tossed you out. There is the hall where she hangs her vulture hat. There is the room where you kept all the gum wrappers your mother gave you.

There is the greenhouse.

She was good, your mother, but there are lots of ways to be good.

The Mimbulus mimbletonia needs to be repotted. It’s getting root bound. You busy yourself, getting out the right soil, doing the charms on it to make it exactly what the plant needs. It’s a tricky one, this plant. Make it angry and it squirts sap on everything. Treat it well, and it croons to you.

You’ve always treated it well, and it recognizes your touch and sings when you stroke it. Guilt. You haven’t been taking care of it, or any of your plants, as well as you should. “I have a new home for you,” you tell it. “Bigger. You can grow as much as you want in this one.”

You’re a good herbalist. One of the best. And your mother was a good warrior for the light. Pure. She didn’t stoop. Didn’t break. Never sullied herself. It’s one way to be good.

Severus Snape got down in the muck, got as dirty as your hands are now, potting soil under your nails and fertilizer clinging to your thumb. And, god, he was such an arsehole. You hated him. Even when you stopped being afraid of him, you hated him.

But, goddamn him, he was good. Sullied and soiled and rotten and mean and for seven years you went to bed hoping he’d be sick the next day. And then he had the nerve to be on the right side after all.

You gently settle the mimbulus into its new pot and pile dirt around it, pressing down with your fingers so there aren’t air pockets. You have to do things the right way. You have to do things carefully. Otherwise, rot sets in. And you have to be willing to get dirty. Some people wear gloves, but you can’t feel the soil properly through them. You have to touch it.

You can breathe out here with the plants and the quiet. It’s hard to think in London. Hard to know what to do with all the noise and the people and the reminders of hell. You clean up your mess, wash your hands in the sink, and take a last look around at all the living things, moved from their original homes into pots. They’re dependent now. Tamed. They need you.

You turn off the light. Hermione’s wedding is this afternoon, and you need to get cleaned up. Time to go be good for an audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Olivie Blake for beta reading this monstrosity of a tale.


	28. Chapter 28

Hermione is slouched on a sofa when you arrive, shown up the stairs to the bridal suite by a giggling, nervous witch who seems overawed by everything around her. The wealth, the luxury, and, disconcertingly, even you. She clasps your hand before she deposits you at Hermione’s door and says, all in a rush, “Oh-Neville-Longbottom-I-am-so-glad-I-got-to-meet-you-you-were-always-my-favorite.” Then, with a flush to her cheeks as red as Ginny’s hair, she whirls around and runs back down the stairs to her job at this fancy party, leaving you nonplussed and knocking.

“Come in.”

Hermione is not overawed. If anything, she’s sullen. She’s also only half-dressed -- which should make you uncomfortable because Hermione’s underthings belong in a black hole in your mind where things too horrible to remember even in nightmares go -- but the unmentionables for her wedding dress involve more fabric than most witch’s regular clothes, even including good and sturdy winter coats.

“Do you need any help?” you ask her. That’s supposed to be your job, or at least you think it is. Bridal attendants do _something_, you’re fairly sure. Were you supposed to throw her a hen party?

Well, there’s a flash of guilt.

(_You’re so forgetful, Neville_, your grandmother says in your mind, and it’s not fondly. Her tone is filled with aggravation. _You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your neck_.)

Though, it’s not like you’d know who to invite anyway.

“What I need,” Hermione says, “is a new bridegroom.” She swings a foot at a single shoe, and the beribboned thing tumbles across the room, eager to get away from her.

“Draco’s not that bad,” you say, which seems like a lie and understating the matter at the same time.

“He’s a coward,” she says. She’s done something to her face. Paints, you suppose. You’re so used to her without makeup she seems monstrous with her blackened eyes and reddened mouth. Her teeth are whiter against the red, the way they would be against blood, and she’s erased the flaws and freckles that make her human and replaced them with perfection. Draco has to be the very opposite of a coward to be as in love with her as he is.

“He defied them,” you say softly. “Maybe not so much of a coward as all that.”

“In secret,” she says. “Where no one could see.”

“He helped you hide Filch.”

(laughing)

You close your eyes for a moment, resting a hand on the back of one of the silk-covered chairs. It’s always there, crawling across the back of your mind, and you have to push the knee-jerk fear away. When you open them again, she’s studying your face. “I sometimes dream I’m in that tent with Harry,” she says conversationally. “It’s cold, and I’m hungry, and that locket of Voldemort’s is whispering all my worst fears to me over and over again.”

It’s too intrusive to ask, but you don’t have to because she goes on. “_People only like you because you’re clever, it says. They’re using you, and once you aren’t useful to them, they’ll leave you behind because you’re a pushy bore no one really likes. No one wants you except to copy your homework_.”

“None of that is true,” you say.

“It’s true enough,” she says. “Remember how it never occurred to Ron to ask me to the Yule Ball?”

“We were 14,” you protest, but you do remember. “And, as I recall, you went with a Quidditch star.”

She smiles; the sort of fond looking back into memory Luna brings out in you. Not all of the past is a horror. “It was clever, that locket. It took your fears and found every scrap of evidence to support them while ignoring all the good things.”

“Not a pleasant thing to dream about.”

“No.” She stands up, and the white wire skirt she’s wearing swings around her like a crazed lampshade.

You catch her hand. “You know I’m not using you,” you say slowly. “This thing we’re doing – “

“I know,” she says, and you’re grateful she doesn’t make you say it. Being forced to say things can be a special kind of torture. “We’ll burn them all down, right?”

“Whatever it takes,” you agree. “No more Voldemorts.”

“Never again,” she says. She lifts up her stiff underskirt and laughs at it. “No matter what it takes. Even this absurdity.”

And you laugh too, grateful she’s happy enough. And, of course, that skirt is a bit ridiculous.

. . . . . . . . . .

Standing by the altar, Draco began to regret his choice. He could run now. He could make his apologies. He could tell Hermione he’d been screwing Pansy for the last several months and let her make good on her threat to leave him. It would set them both free.

The minister his mother had found – some cousin of Mildred’s, of all things – leaned forward to whisper, “This is the worst part,” and all Draco could think was how wonderful that he was so transparent even some woman he’d never met before could tell he was nervous. Or maybe every groom was nervous.

Most of them were at least marrying brides who loved them.

He put his mask on, smiled at his mother, and waited with the same patience he’d used in his Dark Arts classes. Waiting for Hermione. Waiting to see if he’d get picked to be the torturer or the tortured, it was all the same.

Until the door opened and Neville met his eyes. It was time. Everyone stood, turned. The guests made all the required noises of “oohing” and “ahhing” and “how beautiful” as Hermione walked towards him, lilacs in her hands, her eyes fixed on him.

He’d seen the photograph of the dress the day she picked it out. The day he told her. The day she’d walked out. He hadn’t thought of it since.

She looked glorious.

The dress framed her breasts, skimmed down to her waist, then flared into a skirt so big Draco couldn’t imagine how it stayed out from her. Not that he cared. He was grateful he was allowed to look happy here; allowed to look as if she took his breath away. She did. The scent of the lilacs preceded her, and when she handed the bouquet to Neville and Draco took her hands, he imagined they were surrounded by their own, scent-bounded bubble. For these few minutes, he could announce to the world that he loved her, slide a ring that displayed that love onto her hand, press his mouth against hers.

For a few all-too-brief minutes.

Then the spell broke, and they turned to walk up the aisle hand in hand, husband and wife, and he was utterly, utterly alone. Again.

. . . . . . . . . .

You should watch the ceremony. Instead, you look across Hermione and over Draco and watch Theo instead. He’s in the same dress robes you are – Narcissa Malfoy has opinions about style and fashion. They made you feel like a fraud the moment you put them on. You could be a teenager again, slinking into the Yule Ball. You haven’t even thought of that in years, but today Hermione brought it up, and now it’s back in your head. All the ways you weren’t good enough then.

_Honestly, Neville_. Your grandmother stopped you in the corridor earlier and picked several pieces of something off your robes. _Did you even look in a mirror?_

Of course, you did.

These robes itch at you. This is wrong. This isn’t who you are. You’re playing dress up, and everything hangs wrong, sits wrong, flows wrong.

Not that that’s possible, of course. Narcissa Malfoy ensured you had enough fittings the tailor could have woven you robes from dust and feathers and everything would be perfect down to the quarter inch.

The sixteenth inch.

It all still feels wrong.

But on Theo, the dress robes look perfect. 

The black fabric makes his skin seem paler and his hair inkier and his dark blue eyes meet yours, and you’ve heard all the ridiculous stories. You lived in a co-ed dormitory, you shared a common room with girls, and they all liked to talk about how the throes of romance left their mouths dry and their palms wet and butterflies in their stomachs. You never believed a word of it. But now your mouth is dry, and your palms are wet, and the minister is saying things about never to be parted, and magic shall join you together, and from two shall be made one, and you want that.

The minister is talking. “Let what we have joined here today be finished when you two are as one, and then you shall not be parted from one another as long as you both shall live.”

“Amen,” says Hermione.

“Amen.” That one is Draco.

_I love you_, Theo mouths, as Draco and Hermione kiss exactly long enough to make it seem sincere and not one moment longer.

Those girls were right about the butterflies.

. . . . . . . . . .

“She was one of the most talented witches of that class,” a matron says as everyone mingles before dinner. “Was accepted into Severus Snape’s N.E.W.T. Potions class, and you know how particular he was.”

“It’s good to have a Muggle-born Minister,” her companion says complacently. “After all that nonsense with Voldemort, it shows good, ordinary witches and wizards aren’t like that.”

“Indeed.” She plucks a starter off one of the trays of the passing house elves. “Did I tell you my nephew joined the Knights of Walpurgis? He asked to borrow my copy of _Contrition_ because they’re doing a bit of a book group with it.”

“Oh, how sweet. It’s so nice to see young people reading.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry stood and cleared his throat, and, as happened rather uncomfortably often these days, the room quieted, and every face turned to see what he had to say. Hermione’s eyes were wide – he hadn’t told her about this – and Draco Malfoy looked gratifyingly nervous as if they were still school children and he might be planning to cause a scene at the man’s wedding. He wouldn’t, of course. He was far too adult for that, though not quite adult enough he didn’t get a tiny frisson of pleasure from the knowledge Malfoy was afraid he would.

“Mrs. Malfoy asked me to give a toast,” he began, then grinned at Hermione’s evident confusion. “Not you, Hermione. The other one. And since I owe Narcissa Malfoy quite a debt of gratitude, I couldn’t say no.”

The room laughed. It was a comfortable sound. Privileged people enjoying a moment to bask in praise of one of their own.

Harry raised his wine glass toward Hermione. “Hermione, you’ve been one of my best friends since I was eleven. We’ve survived war, the food at Hogwarts, and, most terrifying of all, Divination class together.” That got another laugh. “And after all we’ve been through, it is one of the great pleasures of my life to stand here and wish you happiness.”

Hermione’s smile was far too bleak to grace the face of any bride, but most of the people here wouldn’t know her well enough to see that. Draco Malfoy glanced at it, and his mouth trembled for a moment before returning to the proper position for an aristocrat, happy at his wedding, too British to show untoward emotion.

Harry moved his arm so his glass pointed directly at Draco Malfoy. “You, Malfoy, I disliked from day one.”

The laugh that got was a tiny bit uncomfortable. Draco’s mouth twisted in what looked like wry acknowledgment of the truth.

“For six years I didn’t like you, and for one I felt heartily sorry for you, and now you’re marrying one of my best friends.” Harry took a deep breath. “I learned a lot of things in that war, and one of the most important was to know what love was when I saw it.”

It was probably wrong to enjoy how confused Draco Malfoy looked, but Harry did anyway.

“I wish you long life and happiness, my friend, and I have one bit of advice for you, gleaned from many years at Hermione’s side.”

Draco raised his brows.

“She’s got good aim when she’s cross.”

The room dissolved in laughter as hundreds of witches and wizards who hadn’t so much as risked a fingernail in the war raised their glasses to the newlyweds, and Harry sat down again. He glanced at Narcissa Malfoy. She met his eyes and raised her own glass in his direction with an inscrutable smile on her face.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco felt like he was walking through one of his nightmares. He kept checking nervously over his shoulder, expecting at any moment to see Dumbledore leaning up against a railing that’s too low. Expecting to see Dumbledore falling.

Dumbledore dying while he stood there, unable to do anything at all.

_Run_, Snape hissed in his ear, and his aunt laughed, and he turned and thanked one of his father’s friends for coming. “She did look wonderful,” he agreed. The man’s smile was sly, and his grin knowing, and Draco wanted to tell him to fuck right off, but instead, he played dumb. Better, always, to pretend he didn’t know what they were talking about.

_I’m sorry, Professor Carrow. Could you say that again?_

Pansy couldn’t make it. She sent a lovely note from the continent with a box of wine that’ll be good in five years. Maybe ten. “If you’re still married, open it then,” she wrote. “Maybe I’ll be able to come back by then, but right now, even thinking about going back to Britain makes me want to throw up.”

Draco understood.

“I didn’t know you and Neville were such good friends.” Draco can’t place the woman. She’s elderly and dressed in a way that was fashionable and expensive twenty years ago and now is merely odd, but her accent says money, so she has to be a guest. “I didn’t know he knew anyone in Slytherin and now he’s here while you marry Hermione Granger, and that Nott boy is his,” she trailed off, her mouth twisting.

“I would trust Neville with my life,” Draco said. It was honest enough. “Theo too,” he added. “I hope the next wedding I go to is theirs.”

Her mouth could be a dishrag someone was wringing out with all the twisting contortions it made its way through. “I doubt that will happen,” she said finally.

Neville had his hand in Theo’s, and the two of them were making what looked like a very determined exit. An escape. Draco couldn’t blame them. He smiled at this woman, whoever she was, and said, “Well, maybe you’re right.”

Another turn. Another glass of wine pressed into his hand. “How long until you give Narcissa that grandchild she wants so much?”

Never.

Draco laughed and made the right

(Filch laughing)

response, and everyone agreed things were much easier when you could hire a nurse. “She won’t need to miss more than a week or two of work,” the witch said. “I just had my secretary visit me in hospital, and we went right on.”

“You’re an inspiration,” Draco said.

Another hour down. At the end of this, he would be alone with Hermione. At the end of this, they would be in a bed, and she would be in lingerie, and they would

(fuck)

consummate their marriage because they had to. It wouldn’t be done until they did. He knew it. She knew it. She could freeze him out every single day for the rest of their private lives, but tonight he got to

(love her)

fuck her.

. . . . . . . . . .

She was not in lingerie.

By the time Draco made his way to the hotel suite where they were supposed to consummate this lie they were in, he was not in the best of moods. A night spent at an event that should have been something joyous and instead was a political minefield he had to navigate while his blushing bride bent her head together with allies and made plans about laws and resolutions and whatever other damn things she’d decided would make things better… well, it wasn’t a good night. And he hadn’t even been able to drown himself in alcohol to make it bearable. Too many things could go wrong and, if that weren’t incentive enough, he had to be able to get it up.

Too much whiskey and that wouldn’t happen.

Based on what Hermione was wearing, it might not happen anyway. She had on a tatty old robe, stained sash tied at her waist. Draco took one look at her, slumped into an armchair, and regretted all the drinks he hadn’t had.

“Well,” she said, “let’s get it over with.”

If he’d had an erection – which he hadn’t – that grim tone would have wilted it. He stretched his legs out, pushed one dress shoe off, and began to smile as a diabolical idea occurred to him. If he’d had the chance to run it by Theo, the man would have called him an idiot and asked if his goal was to make sure the woman hated him forever. But Theo, naturally, wasn’t there, and Draco shrugged internally. If she hated him this much, he didn’t see why he should be at all nice. She certainly wasn’t bothering.

“Why?” he asked as baldly as he could. He ran his eyes over her. Old robe. Her hair still up. Makeup unsmudged. It was a surreal combination and not that attractive. “You obviously aren’t into it.”

“We have to,” she said as if speaking to someone who wasn’t very bright. Draco had heard her use that tone a lot at Hogwarts back when they’d been kids, and it brought back all the feelings of resentment and dislike. “The marriage isn’t complete until it’s consummated.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So,” she said, “if it’s not consummated, it won’t get registered at the Ministry. Someone down in records will notice. Draco,” her voice hitched up a notch. “People will ask me about it. They will talk.”

He shrugged again. “Don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“They will ask what is wrong,” Hermione said. She was speaking slowly now, through gritted teeth. “Because I am Minister they will gossip.”

“So, tell them you don’t like fucking me,” Draco said. He met her eyes. “Tell them this marriage is a sham.” He began to smile. “Tell them why.”

“I can’t do that,” she said, and now she was starting to sound panicked. “Draco, if anyone finds out I killed Filch, I’ll go to Azkaban. You know half those people… I’m so young, I don’t have a power base, I – “

She stopped when she saw his smile. “I could tell them you were badly hurt during the war,” he suggested. “So many of the Death Eaters liked that kind of entertainment, you know.”

That, at least, he’d never had to witness. It was all rumor. But she’d heard them too, and her face grew dark and angry. “You’d let them pity me,” she said.

“I’d think you’d prefer pity to Azkaban.” 

“Or,” she said tightly, “We could have sex and be done with it. It’s not like we haven’t plenty of times before.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not Yaxley,” he said. “I don’t get off on partners who aren’t into me.” He raked his eyes over the robe again, lingering with a curl of his lips on one particularly egregious stain. “And you, Hermione, are very clearly not into me.” He pushed off his second shoe, stood up, and made a show of stretching before starting to unbutton his trousers. “I’ll take the couch. That way you won’t have to share a bed with me.”

“We have to do this,” she said.

Draco laughed. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” he said. God, he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. He was an utter arse. But she’d already promised him a cold and lonely life, trapped in a marriage with a woman who despised him. He might as well take what joys he could. “You’ve well and truly straightened out my misconception that you’re the sort to meddle with my brain, so, unless you can convince me you’re in the mood some other way, I’m off to bed.”

“Convince you,” she said slowly. She rubbed her palms on the sides of her bathrobe and licked her perfectly painted lips. It hurt to see the nerves. That lip licking could have been desire, but he’d never believe that. Not from her. Not after their fight.

“It was just a turn of phrase, Hermione,” Draco said.

“I could convince you,” she said.

Draco hoped against all common sense she’d tell him she wanted him. She’d tell him it was all a misunderstanding, that she was angry, yes – furious and hurt – but that under all that, she loved him.

“Not that I… like you.”

“Oh, I think we both know you don’t,” he said, his heart shredding a little.

“But I want you.”

“And why should I believe that?” Draco hadn’t known it was possible to feel your heart break and stand in one place, unbending. It was a bit like facing down sadistic teachers. As long as you didn’t let them see beyond your mask, you kept at least a little bit of dignity. If he couldn’t have love, he’d settle for pride. “I think you promised me a cold and empty marriage bed.”

She bit her lip. “I could show you.”

“I’m not interested in fucking you once so your co-workers won’t sneer,” he said, but he settled back down into the chair. “If you want me, it means not just when it gets you something.”

“Fine.”

Draco spread his hands. “Convince me.”

She began to kneel down, and he made a face. “God,” he said. “Not while you’re wearing that robe. No one could get it up looking at a woman in something that ugly.”

She tugged uncertainly at the sash, then fought to undo the knot. “Could you help?” she asked when it wouldn’t come undone.

“No,” he said, despising every word that came out of his mouth but saying them anyway. This was a disaster he could see coming in slow motion and yet couldn’t seem to stop. He was on this train and couldn’t stop the ride now. “Take your own damn clothes off.”

She resorted to a quick slicing charm with a sharp, aggressive snap of her wrist. The sash fell away, and the robe dropped open. Draco let out an appreciative whistle. Under that dress, she’d worn bits of silk and lace designed to entice. They’d probably come with the dress; a reasonable dressmaker would assume a bride wanted something sexy and wouldn’t have thought to offer anything else. He’d never believe she’d worn them for him. The brasserie held her breasts up like an offering, and the knickers tied over her hips. She reached her hands behind her to undo the clasp, and he said, “No,” again.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Your breasts look great in that,” Draco said. “Leave it.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

He leaned back. “It pains me to point this out,” he said in a drawl he knew she hated, “but so few men are really seduced by shrews. I’m sure there are some, but not me. You might want to try for a tone a little breathier if you want this to work.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Or, we could go back to my plan, which was me reading a bit then going to sleep on the couch. It’s up to you.”

_Please_, he thought. _Tell me you love me._

She looked at him for a long moment, and he half expected her to turn on her heel, tell him to fuck off and be done with it. Instead, she lowered herself slowly to her knees, reached her hands for his trousers, and began to slowly pull them open. He leaned back, hands behind his head, and watched without helping at all as she struggled to pull the fabric open and his pants aside. His cock sprang free.

“You aren’t indifferent,” she said, and he could hear the smugness in her voice. She liked this, he thought in dull shock. She liked knowing he wanted her even as he pretended to despise her. Even as he said the cruelest things he could. It made him want to lash out even more.

“Oh, you’re hot,” Draco said bitterly. “Right now, I’m thinking about bending you over that sofa and pounding into you. Doesn’t mean I would unless I thought you wanted me to and, honestly, you seem a little reluctant.”

“You’ve threatened me,” she said a bit wryly, “That doesn’t inspire enthusiasm.”

He caught her chin in one hand. That he wouldn’t stand for. If he’d been threatening her -- using all those skills he’d learned at the Carrow’s feet -- she’d be crying, not looking at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to fuck him or slap him. “Bullshit,” he said softly. “Threatened you. You’ve survived a hell of a lot more than those arseholes in the Ministry whispering you didn’t consummate your marriage. Am I supposed to think you’d fold for that?”

“I hate you.” The words were defiant, cruel, flung in his face.

He was going to throw up right here. How could his cock stay hard when his heart was sliced into pieces. He let her go. “Fine, but I’m not fucking a woman who doesn’t want me to, not even if she’s my wife.”

“But you don’t care if I despise you.’

“Not especially,” he lied. His stomach churned. His hateful cock didn’t care.

He folded his hands back behind his head and watched as she studied his face before lowering her mouth to him. He couldn’t control a groan, and she swirled her tongue, and that elicited another one. He’d forgotten how good she was at this or assumed the memories were augmented, fantastical. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes and somehow, somewhere between her mouth on his cock and her hands tugging at his trousers, trying to get them lower, he had his hands in her hair and was yanking on it, first to pull her closer, to get deeper into her mouth, then to shove her away before he came.

He panted as he looked at her. “Not the worst sales job ever,” he said.

She smiled from where she sat, half sprawled on the floor of their honeymoon suite, her hands behind her holding her up.

He lunged toward her, pushing her all the way down and spreading her legs with one knee. “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he whispered in one ear. He rubbed one thumb over a silk-clad nipple and, when it sprang to attention, dragged his mouth down to hover over it. “Shall I?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Yes or no.” He knew she could feel his warm breath through the thin fabric, and she hesitated for a long moment so he began to sit back up. “I mean, if you don’t want to be touched,” he began.

“Yes,” she gasped.

Draco laughed, then lowered his mouth to the nipple, sucking at it until the fabric was wet, then blowing on the silk until she shivered underneath him. He flicked a finger over the hard nipple, and she writhed. “You seem passably interested,” he acknowledged. “But bodies react to stimulus, so it could just be that.”

He ran a hand along the skin of her stomach, under the tiny boundary created by the wisp of fabric, and his fingers slid against her. “Bodies react,” he said again. “Yours certainly is.”

“Draco,” she said, and as a reward he pressed his mouth one last time to that erect nipple, reveling in the way she twisted under him, then dragged his mouth down to the skin below her brassiere, running his tongue in slow circles over her chest, her stomach, her hips. She raised those hips, pressing them up toward him in wordless entreaty, but he had no intention of letting that pass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You want something?”

When he glanced back at her face, she’d lifted her head off the floor and was staring at him, mouth partially open. She licked at her lips, and, even though it took more self-control than he knew he had, he raised his brows and waited. “Draco,” she said. “Please.”

“Please what?” he asked. “Please stop? Please go read my book? Please leave you alone?”

“Your mouth,” she said. “Please.”

“Please stop talking?”

She raised her hips again, and he sat back on his heels. “You’re going to have to say it. In detail.”

She turned bright red and closed her eyes, but managed to get out, “Please lick me.”

He bent down and licked her thigh. It was obliging, and technically exactly what she’d asked for, and her hands curled into fists at her sides and, because he was an utter bastard, he leaned down and licked her other thigh. He hadn’t known she could spread her legs that wide, and they sprawled open over the luxurious carpet. The wet spot in the center of that minuscule shred of fabric threatened to swamp all that wool.

“Not there,” she said. “Draco, please.”

He flicked his tongue over the fabric, and she arched up so high he could grab at her back with his hands and curl his fingers into her skin with enough force it had to hurt. She just thrust herself at him more desperately than before.

He reached down and undid the bow tying her knickers in place with his teeth, then held her to his mouth. She keened when he finally touched tongue to skin, and when he went to work in earnest, she ground against him. He knew her – could read her every flinch, every narrow-eyed gaze, every smile – and he certainly knew when she was about to come.

He stopped, dropped her back down, and wiped his mouth.

“Do you want me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She propped herself up on one elbow. Her hair had gotten disheveled and hung down in a half-undone twist by one ear. Her eyes were dilated. He could see her pulse pounding in the base of her throat. “Draco – “

“Then say it, and don’t be shy about using all your extensive vocabulary.”

“I want you to fuck me,” she said. “I want… why do I have to say this?”

“Because I want to hear you acknowledge it,” he said. He knew it was cruel, but fuck it, and fuck her. Fuck everything. “You can barely stand me, but you still want my cock in you, and you’re going to goddamn beg me for it.” 

“Fuck me,” she said, and he could hear the rage under the lust. “Bend me over the sofa the way you said you wanted to and shove your cock in me and fuck me.”

It was far less satisfying to hear than Draco had expected, which might have been why he dragged her up by one arm without any concern for her comfort and flung her face down over the back of the sofa. His trousers were still on, but let it be this way. Let her be gasping and vulnerable as he fingered her, reveling in every gasp. He had this power over her, at least. And he was still clothed, his shirt still buttoned, as he positioned his cock and thrust it into her. He shoved as hard as he could, one hand on her hip. He came in a burst of pleasure and self-loathing and knew she hadn’t. He didn’t pull out but reached one hand around to fumble his fingers over her engorged clit until she shuddered in his arms.

Then he straightened up and stepped back. “There, it’s done,” he said. “I’ll take the shower first.”

He didn’t turn around as he walked away from her.

. . . . . . . . . .

_One of the prettiest weddings of this year was that of Miss Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, held at the Selwyn Club in London. The Rev. Affabilia Bulstrode officiated. The rooms were filled with lilacs and wild roses and a great profusion of ferns decorated every staircase. The bride, a very popular Muggle-born and current Minister for Magic, wore a stunning hoop-skirted gown with a daring neckline made from cream silk. A substantial ruby hung at her throat, one of the stones in the infamous Malfoy tiara reset in a fresh modern setting. Her engagement ring – a large black diamond – is sure to set the fashion for every bride. After the ceremony, a charming supper was served, followed by dessert and dancing. The happy couple plans a short honeymoon in France and then will return to London where they will take up residence in Draco Malfoy’s fashionable flat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the many people who read and commented on this chapter to help me try to shape it the way I wanted. All of you are gems: OlivieBlake, dulce-de-leche-go, turbulenthandholding, fibrochemist, misdemeanor1331, torrilin, and dragondiva
> 
> I feel like this would be a good time to say again that I do absolutely promise a HEA for both dramione and theville, no matter what it feels like right now, and that Draco is nothing if not an unreliable narrator. And Hermione is perfectly capable of obtaining and wearing unflattering, comfortable lingerie if she wants.


	29. Chapter 29

Where the fuck is Harry?

You know where Draco and Hermione are. Off on a honeymoon, isn’t that sweet? Who doesn’t want to go to Paris and then the south of France? Drink in the cafes, sit on the beaches. So blue, that water. Azure. People tell you photographs don’t do it justice, but you wouldn’t know. Your grandmother isn’t one to travel. British ways are best.

You might have liked a trip to the continent that year. Take some time off, see the world instead of getting all too acquainted with the stone floors of your school. Some parents did that. Took their kids and fled. Spared them. Not yours though. British ways are best, and you shouldn’t complain about what it took to hone you into this.

Theo looks up from the paper. “Nice article in _The Prophet,”_ he says. “They sent a good photographer.”

Of course they did.

“They get Harry?” you ask. Harry, who knows. Harry, who is an Auror. Harry, who is a complication.

“With his glass raised in a toast,” Theo says. He sighs and puts the sheets down, pulls his feet off the box he’s dragged in front of the chair. “How are you holding up?”

You smile. It’s a ghastly thing, you know, because you don’t lie to Theo. “I’m rich,” you say. “Alive. That should mean something.”

He snorts. “Let’s bake.”

It’s not the sort of thing he does, and you almost scoff, but he’s pulling bins of flour down, and oats, and melting a bar of chocolate and you join him. Measure. Stir. Level the salt. Pour it in. Mix. Chop. Melt. The batter goes in the pan, the pan goes in the oven, the biscuits are dipped in the chocolate.

“You’re good at this,” Theo says. You haven’t spoken. Worked side by side in companionable silence, which he breaks as he lays one biscuit, half covered in chocolate, on the waxed paper to cool. You want to deny it. It’s too much like potions. Too much like what you’re not remotely good at, but the finished product doesn’t lie. You bite into one, wincing when it’s too hot still, but it’s good.

Delicious, even.

“I learned how to cook from Potions,” Theo says. He’s not looking at you. Is he _carefully_ not looking at you? How unlike Theo to be anything but direct. He’s dipping another biscuit, holding it up to drip a bit back into the pan before setting it down. “I don’t want to ever make another bone setting potion in my life, but all those measuring skills have to be good for something.”

“He wasn’t a total loss,” you say. Snape, you mean.

“Shite personal hygiene though.”

You laugh and a tiny bit of the despair – a tiny bit of the rage – dissipates.

But, really, where the fuck is Harry?

. . . . . . . . .

_excerpt of a letter_

_… France is lovely. We’ve both been here before, of course. Malfoy more than once. His French is not very good, and he absolutely refuses to believe it isn’t perfect, which is far too funny. We go into restaurants and he tries to speak French, and you can just see the staff sighing as they shift to English. I shouldn’t laugh. I can’t do more than ask for directions to the loo. _Ou sont les toulettes._ It’s a handy phrase. That and thank you, which I just used when I picked up a batch of Calming Draughts. But, Harry. Please. I don’t think subterfuge is one of your best skills. I know you claim that you’ve learned things being an Auror, but trying to infiltrate a Knights meeting is… I don’t think it’s going to go well. And I’m sure the Ministry isn’t going to be pleased with you for going off on your own like that. We aren’t in Hogwarts anymore…_

. . . . . . . . . .

France was the same. France was horribly different than every other visit he’d ever made. Draco got up in the morning and stretched out the kinks and pains that worked their way under his skin thanks to sleeping on the couch of their honeymoon suite, then took a hot shower. He pretended not to see the calming draughts on the counter, sitting neatly next to Hermione’s toothbrush. She showered next, and then it was breakfast. That meal, at least, they could order in. No need to look loving and happy and lost in one another over their yogurt.

Lunch was a different story. They took lunch in cafes, a different one every day. Hermione – thank God – had been to Paris before and didn’t want to climb the Eiffel Tower or any other tourist thing. Draco had been dragged to every site in any guidebook by his parents because Narcissa had decided it was _educational_ and _broadening._

But Hermione turned out to be a very pleasant travelling companion. She had a bit of a tiresome yen to track down old bookstores, but most of them came with a nearby café, so it wasn’t all bad. They’d apparate to a spot near The Abbey Bookshop (stifling – Draco waited outside because the books began to press in on him and it was hard to breathe) or The San Francisco Book Co. (also stifling) or Violette and Co., where they stumbled into a lecture on deportation issues. Draco wouldn’t have thought Hermione’s French good enough to follow the arguments – his certainly wasn’t – but she insisted on staying, so he settled in next to her on an uncomfortable chair and pretended he understood what was being said. What he really did was admire her hair. She’d twisted it up into a simple knot, and several tendrils hung down around her ears, catching the light and bending it into a dozen shades of brown and wheat and gold.

When she caught him staring, she raised a nervous hand to her hair. “Did I get something caught?” she asked.

“No,” he said. He reached out and tucked a single curl behind her ear. “It’s fine.”

He waited for her to flinch away from his touch. They came together at night in heated, furious sex that left him breathless and wrung out and unhappy in a way he hadn’t known he could be, but affection was something they didn’t do.

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either. She just turned her face back to the speaker and fastened her brown eyes on the woman’s slender frame as she gesticulated and spoke passionately and quickly.

Afterward, Draco bought a copy of her book for Hermione.

Dinners were the most fraught. After a day spent wandering the streets and looking at trinkets spread out on blankets, they’d suddenly be alone again, trapped in a hotel room getting dressed for dinner. Her shoulders gleamed in the artificial light, her hands moved gracefully as she fastened jewels to her ears.

He loved her. He hated that he loved her. He was certain she despised him.

“You look beautiful,” he would tell her every night. A truth.

“How convenient for you,” she would reply, accioing a wrap. It got cool in the evenings.

Then dinner. The return stroll, hand in hand through some magical district. Look, it’s the British Minister. So young. She’s here on her honeymoon, haven’t you heard. So pretty. I heard he was one of their terrorists. No, the son of one. Look at that hair. It’s like silver. Love conquers everything.

I bet it’s just political.

His French was good enough to follow the murmurs that followed them. The smiles that landed on Hermione. The frowns he got. And then, they’d go back to the hotel and have sex.

Her nails on his back.

His name on her lips.

Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

. . . . . . . . . .

They went to Villefranche after Paris. A little village, supported by cruise ships and fishermen and a language school. Enough tourists there were hotels. Few enough the place felt at least a little real. It was a place his mother liked, away from the peasants that clogged the streets and restaurants in Paris.

It was a place he liked, liked well enough to fall asleep, stretched out on the sofa the honeymoon suite boasted, his shuttered eyes facing the lights of the boats sitting silent and still on the deep bay.

One of the boats began to slowly pull toward the docks, the light getting larger and larger. Draco shoved his hair back over his forehead and glared at the brightness. “How am I supposed to sleep with this?” he complained. He hated to shut the curtains, but he pulled himself up to drag the heavy draperies closed and he was there. Standing on the balcony. _You could have breakfast on it_, the concierge had said when they checked in. _It’s a lovely view._

Vincent Crabbe. Standing there. His face burned, his eyes as bright as the ship on the bay. As bright as fire. “You left me,” he said. “You left me and married that _whore_.”

Draco took a step back into the room. Shadows blocked the light; Death Eater after Death Eater were flying toward him on their brooms, skimming back and forth across the light beam.

“You don’t get to just quit,” Vincent said. “This isn’t something you can walk away from.” His jaw moved, bits of burned skin and flesh breaking off and falling down, falling off the balcony, falling like Dumbledore from the Astronomy Tower, and the Death Eaters were coming on their broomsticks.

And one flying without.

Draco screamed.

And one of them was touching his face. One of them had a cool hand against his skin, and then was shaking him and calling his name, and his eyes flew open.

Hermione knelt by the couch, her curls tied back from her face with a simple scarf, worry in her brown eyes. “You were screaming,” she said.

Draco looked out at the bay, not wanting to see her pity, since pity was what he was sure he would find. The steady lights of the boats sat still, none excessively large, none coming nearer. “It’s fine.”

Her hand, which had moved from his cheek to his shoulder, tightened. “It’s clearly not,” she said. “Tell me?”

The words were an invitation he hadn’t expected, and Draco let out a shuddering breath. They didn’t do affection. They didn’t do intimacy. Only sex. Only pretending. Still, he could hardly refuse to answer her. “I have nightmares,” he said. “Everyone does.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. She accioed one of the chairs over wandlessly, and he spared a moment to admire the magical skill behind that. She’d been practicing.

“Nice,” he said. No need to pretend that wasn’t impressive.

Even in the dim light that came through the window, he could tell she flushed at that. “I didn’t want you to be able to do something I couldn’t,” she admitted. “Maybe not the best reason to learn something, but…”

He laughed. That was honest of her.

“I dream about the horcrux,” she said in a low voice. “We had to wear it, you know, or thought we did.” She settled onto the chair, and for a moment his shoulder felt cold and empty where her palm had been, but then she pressed her hand against him once again. “It whispered to you, all your worst fears. You can’t imagine what having a piece of his soul telling you things was like.”

“I can guess,” Draco said grimly. He had a fairly intimate acquaintance with how mad Voldemort had been. How cruel. He wanted to fold the woman next to him into his arms. Wanted to hold her until all that fear drained away. He couldn’t, of course. She’d shove him away. He settled for placing one hand oh-so-cautiously on top of hers.

“Harry seemed to do okay,” Hermione went on. “It did terrible things to Ron. He couldn’t bear it, he ended up—” Then she stopped.

“What?

“He just broke for a bit,” Hermione said. “That’s all.”

“Everyone does.” Everyone, he thought, except the woman sitting next to him. “What did it tell you?” He forced what had to be a ghastly smile to his face. “That you’d only get the second highest marks in Runes?”

Her laugh wasn’t the funny sort. “That people only kept me around because I was useful,” she said. “That no one really liked me or wanted me there.”

That was a stab in the heart. Without conscious thought, Draco grabbed the hand he was touching. “I do,” he said.

That bitter laugh again. “Sure.”

She moved to pull her hand away, and he held it tighter. “Look,” he said. “I was a shite, and I’m sorry, but why would you want me? You can’t blame me for thinking that was,” he paused and searched for a word that would describe how _no one_ could be stupid enough to want him, the failed Death Eater, the shoe licker. He settled on the wholly unsatisfactory, “unlikely,” which came out in a choked whisper.

There was a long, painful pause. Pansy would have filled the gap with something pithy, if she wanted to be mean, or light, if she wanted to avoid the subject. Theo would have made a crass observation. His mother would have waited.

Draco waited.

“Well,” she said at last, “I did marry you.”

He leveled a long look at her, and she screwed up her face. “I could have outsmarted your mother if I’d cared too.”

Draco raised his brows.

“I could have told her that you were an accessory to murder, so if they decided to take me down, I was taking you down with me.”

That, Draco had to admit, was not the worst point.

“And I wore that lingerie,” Hermione said, and a hint of discomfort crept into her voice. “On our wedding.”

“And that bathrobe.”

“I was nervous,” she said, almost snapping his head off with the words before she drew back a little. “You don’t think I’m so incompetent I couldn’t manage to find underwear more comfortable than that was, do you?”

Draco spared a thought for the myriad of things she’d worn over the course of their honeymoon. It hadn’t occurred to him until this moment, but now that she’d drawn his attention to it, he had to admit that none of them seem to have been selected with comfort as their primary objective. Little bits of silk and lace and satin that –

“Wait,” he said. “Even after I – .” He’d accused her of something _horrendous_. Never mind he had good reasons to be scared of just that thing. Never mind he knew she was damn good at it. 

She should be. He’d taught her.

He took a hand and laid it across her forehead. “Are you sure wearing that horcrux didn’t do something to your brain?”

“Probably the same thing being locked up with the Carrows did to yours,” she said tartly, and then, somehow, improbably, they were kissing. Her mouth was on his and this time it was sweet. This time he wasn’t biting at her lip, half in a rage, half to shove away whatever sort of intimacy kissing tried to start.

They were kissing, and then they were on the bed, and Draco had a good feeling he wasn’t going to wake up with a sore neck from sleeping on the couch any longer.

After he’d determined she was wearing knickers that hadn’t been chosen for practicality – and duly admired them and what they contained at some length – they lay on the bed. “You’re still an arse,” she said.

Draco had to admit this was the case.

“And this is not going to be easy.”

“God,” he said. “You make it sound like having to write a four-foot essay.”

“That would be easier.”

“For Divination.”

She hit him, but the blow wasn’t very hard, and probably counted more as ‘teasing’ or ‘exasperated.’ At least Draco hoped it did. He tucked an arm around her and pulled her against him. “You’re a pain in the arse,” he said. 

“I wonder what Harry’s doing,” she said, as if to prove his point.

“I don’t care,” he said, somewhat sourly, and they fell asleep like that. Not blissful, maybe, but not at war either.

Draco would take it.

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry, naturally, was getting into trouble. He’s hard to kill, though, so it’s sure to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the marvelous OlivieBlake for beta reading, and to all of you for giving me your eyes.
> 
> I keep them in a jar.


	30. Chapter 30

You hear about the details afterward. Harry shows up when you’re out. His hair is tousled, you assume, the way it always is. Some boys – men – spend hours in front of the mirror, try product after product, spell after spell, trying to get their hair to fall in just that disheveled way. They fail.

Your hair never has that je ne sais quoi.

But Harry shows up with his perfectly disheveled hair, and you’re not there. You’re at the park, hands against a tree, trying to breathe. Trying to reach down into the soil the way the tree does. Trying to live.

Theo’s there. “I was looking for Neville,” Harry says.

“He’s gone out.”

“Where?”

Theo shrugs. Or, at least you assume that’s what he does. Maybe he licks his lips and runs his eyes up and down Harry, trying to make him uncomfortable. “We don’t keep tabs on one another,” he says. “Want a drink?”

Harry shakes his head. Not a drinker, that one. Whatever horrors he’s got in his head – and you’re sure there are some – he drowns them out by moving, by working, by going to this place and that place at the Ministry’s behest.

Somehow, you doubt it works. The nightmares always catch up to you.

“What then?” Theo asks. “Not plant advice, I’m sure.”

“No,” Harry says.

“Ginny finally dump you?”

“It was a mutual decision.”

You don’t have to have been there to hear Theo’s snort at that. But Harry didn’t stop by to complain about Ginny or ask how to pot something up. He wants someone to go with him on an expedition that is, on its face, a fool’s errand.

On its arse, too. It’s an idea that’s badly thought out from tip to tail, so, naturally, Theo pulls his lanky frame off the sofa, grabs his wand, and is all in. He’s probably a better choice that you would have been. Two heroes from the last war? The brand-new Knights of Walpurgis wouldn’t have let them in the door. But one embittered hero and a Death Eater’s son? There’s a pair ripe for recruitment.

“You wouldn’t believe the tripe they were spouting,” Theo tells you later, hand splayed over your stomach. “Voldemort was a monster, and he lead people astray. The true ideals of the movement got lost.”

“What the fuck ideals were those?” Making people grovel? Sadism? You suppose it’s too much to hope for these jokers decide to dedicate themselves to the immortality bit and spend the next seventy years trying to make a philosopher’s stone.

“Purity.” Theo’s voice is sour as he says it.

“Figures.”

“They made a point of telling me how my inclinations weren’t a problem. That only Muggles cared about things like that.”

You think about your grandmother and snort.

“Right?” Theo rolls back and stares up at the ceiling. “We’re the Chosen Ones, we few purebloods, and it’s our duty to shepherd our world back to a time of decency and upright living or something.”

“What about Muggle-borns?”

“Fine as long as they know their place. Someone in the group must know something about inbreeding because there was a bit of a discussion about the Black family and how they were an example of taking the idea of purity too literally.”

“And Harry?”

Harry, as it turns out, had meant to be subtle. He’d intended to go in, listen to what they had to say, and talk it over with Hermione. Hermione, however, was off in the south of France sleeping in the bed all of you had made for her and wasn’t available to tell him no, tell him to stop, tell him to think. Instead, he had Theo.

You don’t need to be told what Theo did when Harry stood up and called them all a bunch of misbegotten fools who had no idea what they’re talking about. Theo learned his lesson about standing up a little too well from the Carrows. Sometimes, you want to go up to Azkaban and repeat all those lessons, only this time let Alecto be the student. Let Amycus. Let Theo not be the one who learns to beg for the privilege of hurting people as his shirt hangs in strips from his bloodied back. Amycus can learn. Alecto can.

Yaxley can.

It probably wouldn’t work.

You might enjoy it anyway.

But, no, it was lesson learned for Theodore Nott, so he sits back in his chair at the Knights of Walpurgis meeting, eyes on the Chosen One as he stands up, as he draws the fire.

As you used to.

He doesn’t need to tell you that the hands he shoved oh-so-nonchalantly into his trouser pockets were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles went white. He doesn’t need to tell you how he scanned the room, counting the score – maybe a couple more – of young people, all in their 20s. Old enough they missed the Carrows. Old enough they effectively sat out the war. Young enough they’re still stupid, still in the grip of a mind that wants power and glory and falls for the lie of ideals.

They were the sort Voldemort recruited the first time.

They’ve all read _Contrition_. It was very moving. One of them isn’t so sure about the thematic unity. Feels it falls apart in the second half. His is very much a minority view, but they listen. They nod and pretend it’s a good point.

They’re having a _book group_. It’s sort of funny, really. It’s the sort of thing Hermione would like. A bunch of people, all having read the same book, all sitting in a circle, discussing it. They’re invested. They care. They want to make things better.

It’s just that they’re so, so wrong.

“You’re a bunch of fools,” Harry says. He’s on his feet. Heroic. You wonder as Theo tells the story whether he ran a hand through that hair. Byronic, really, that tousled hair. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he jumps up sure enough. Knocks his chair over with the force of that. “Corban Yaxley isn’t a man to follow. He was a _Death Eater_.”

_You don’t understand_, they tell him. _He’s trying to repent. He wants to make things better. He’s seeking absolution through doing it again. Doing it better._

“Death Eater.” Harry’s the sort to be stubborn about that. It might have carried the day, too. They might have listened to him, at least a little if it weren’t for one thing.

“Didn’t seem to bother you when you were making pretty speeches at a Death Eater’s wedding,” one of them says.

“That’s different.”

But he can’t tell them why. Won’t break Draco’s confidence about how he struggled to help during that year. Won’t sully that. Hearing that, it occurs to you for the first time that Harry might have forgiven Draco. Really and truly let it all go. He holds out the public bit instead. “He didn’t betray us when he could have.”

“And look what it got him,” one of them says. “Suspended sentence, the Minister for a wife, you in his pocket.”

“The Malfoys always come out on top,” another agrees.

Harry picks a copy of the book up. “This is wrong,” he says, stubborn and unyielding. “This is evil.”

“Dramatic,” one of them snorts, and somehow it escalates. One of them shoves Harry, he shoves back. It’s a physical fight, twenty-something against two, and it still might have been okay. Theo and Harry might have kept their wits about them, apparated away before it got out of hand.

But one of them shoves his wand into Theo’s neck. He’s high on adrenaline and the fight, can’t possibly have been thinking, but he threatens to find out whether crucio is really all that bad.

Theo is too calm as he tells you this. So, so calm and that sends you into a cold, murderous place. If these worthless wanna-be revolutionaries hurt him, you will track them all down. You will go to their houses, open their doors, and curse them where they stand. Only it won’t be crucio. It’ll be avada kedavra.

“So, Harry killed him,” Theo says, cutting off your train of thought. “And now we have a problem.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco expected to come back from a honeymoon that had worked out much better than he could have hoped and fall into the comfortable routine of doing nothing during the day and fucking Hermione at night. Sure, there was preventing the rise of another Dark Lord, and Yaxley had that book out, and maybe he should look into a little therapy, but he’d assumed he’d have a bit of a break. A lull. A respite in which nothing happened.

Figured it would be Harry Potter who bollixed all those lovely plans up.

“He did what, now?” Draco asked for the fifteenth time.

“Killed a man,” Hermione said tiredly. She’d sunk into one of Neville’s chairs and buried her face in her hand after the first explanation. After the third, she’d started drinking. After the fifth, she’d stopped and taken out a small notebook and started to write things down. Draco was afraid to peer over her shoulder and read it. She was terrifying when she was planning something as mundane as a bill she wanted to pass. He didn’t want to see what her take on, “steps to keep my best friend out of Azkaban” looked like. It might be “get him a good solicitor.” It might be “burn Azkaban to the ground.” He really couldn’t predict.

Draco had read once, years earlier, that men tended to marry women very much like their mothers. He’d scoffed at the time.

He wasn’t scoffing now.

“Well, where is he?” Draco asked, more to have something to say than because he had any intention of hurrying out into the night and tracking Potter down. “On the run? Holed up somewhere?”

“At his townhouse, I assume,” Theo said. “We haven’t talked since, but I haven’t heard any news of – “

“Well, it wouldn’t be in the papers,” Draco said. “Not if they took Harry Potter in for murder. They’d hush that up.”

Hermione rose sharply to her feet. “May I use your floo?”

Neville nodded, and within moments, she was floo-calling the gorgon who guarded her office. Draco didn’t think the woman would be especially pleased with getting a call from her boss at this time of night, but if she was bothered, she gave no sign of it. Current whereabouts of Harry Potter? A quick turn of her head as she looked through something she had right to hand. “In the Auror’s head office. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, thank you,” Hermione said. “I’ll take it from here.”

She terminated the call.

“He could be at work,” Theo said. “It is where he works, after all.”

“Then I’m sure the Aurors will be delighted to see us coming by,” Hermione said. “Especially since we’ll be bringing biscuits.”

“Biscuits?” Draco wasn’t sure he’d heard her properly.

“Everyone likes a witch who arrives with biscuits.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Auror Blotter: Aurors brought in an unnamed man in his early 20s after there was a report of an incident at a meeting of a local Knights of Walpurgis group. The group had met to discuss a book and allegedly the suspect engaged in a shoving match with one of the other participants culminating in the alleged use of an Unforgivable Curse. No charges have yet been filed._

. . . . . . . . . .

The Aurors did like the biscuits. They thanked Hermione rather profusely for them, told her she didn’t need to do that. As the Minister, surely she had more important things to do than bring them baked goods, and at night too.

Potter was nowhere to be seen.

“While I’m here,” Hermione said. “I’ve been meaning to ask Harry a quick question. Nothing professional. We’ve been meaning to have him over for dinner now that we’re back from our honeymoon and I wanted to check on what dates would be good for him.”

The idea they were having Harry over was news to Draco. He kept his mouth shut on the matter.

“No idea where he is,” one of the Aurors said. “Home, probably.”

Hermione drew her wand and rolled it back and forth between her hands. “Funny,” she said, “because I asked my secretary and she said he was here. Why don’t you go see if he’s wandered off to a back room or something.”

The man opened his mouth, but before he could say anything more, Hermione added, “I’ll wait.”

Several of the Aurors kept surreptitiously looking at a closed door toward the back of their main room. Draco wasn’t impressed with what they considered discretion. If it wasn’t Potter back there, they had a stripper or a big pile of contraband Muggle artifacts. Probably drugs.

He walked across the room, stepping over a small bin filled with empty coffee cups and brushing aside a half-dozen old memos. As he passed desk after desk, the old memos refolded themselves into paper airplanes and tried to dive bomb his head. Funny little protective charm. He wondered if that was quite on the up and up.

The door was locked when he got there.

“_Alohomora_,” Theo said softly from where he stood behind Hermione.

Show off, Draco thought as he turned the knob. Someone liked to display his wandless magic.

It wasn’t a stripper.

“Fancy meeting you here, Potter,” Draco said.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled in vain on the ropes tying him to a solid wooden chair. “Get me out of here, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco turned to look at Hermione. The wand she’d been rolling between her palms was pointed firmly at the head Auror. “I think it’s time we had a little talk, you and I,” she said.

And then it got ugly.


	31. Chapter 31

“I don’t care if you’re the Minister,” one Auror said. She put her hands on her hips and glared at Hermione. “There’s rules, and there’s customs, and there’s the way things are done, and no Muggle-born teenager is going to come in here and tell me what to do with a prisoner. 

Draco flinched. Despite having grown up in the thick of sentiments very similar to that one, the political acumen he’d absorbed along with it, however ineptly, made it hard for him to believe anyone could be so stupid as to throw the Minister for Magic’s blood status in her face. It would have been a bad idea no matter who it was, but to do that to a woman who’d survived a war with a madman seemed unwise in the extreme.

“I’m not a teenager,” Hermione said. Her wand didn’t waver. “And I do what I want. And so does Harry. And if you were a halfway decent human being, you’d be thanking him for ridding the world of one more Death Eater.”

“That’s not how the law works,” the Auror said. “Ignatius? Take Mr. Potter to the Azkaban holding area. We’ll schedule a private trial for next week, but since there were over a dozen witnesses, I don’t think it will take long.”

Draco did a quick slicing charm to get the ropes off Potter’s wrists. For good measure, once the man had stood up, he sliced the chair into tiny bits of wood. He might have started in on demolishing the desk

(laughter)

too if Neville hadn’t spoken.

“Private trial?” Neville asked softly. “What is that?”

As if he didn’t know. As if they _all_ didn’t know how much people liked to do things where no one could see.

“Don’t want the publicity?” Hermione asked. “Afraid?”

“He used an Unforgivable Curse,” the Auror said. “And a man died. And what happens when you do that is – “

“Nothing,” Draco said. The word exploded out of him without his even meaning to speak, but it was too much. He’d never have thought he’d be defending Potter. Not Harry Potter, who’d been a thorn in his side ever since he’d been too good to shake hands at eleven years old. If anyone had asked him, he’d have said Potter could go hang. Going out on his little save the world trip while the rest of them suffered. Never having to get his hands dirty. But he couldn’t stand here – _wouldn’t_ stand here —while someone claimed people who did Unforgivable Curses were automatically punished. Fuck the rules.

“How many times were you cursed with Unforgivables?” Neville asked. He’d taken his wand out too and was casually swinging it from side to side. “Just an estimate.”

“Dozens?” Draco guessed. “More?”

“Me too,” Neville said. “And what happened to those people?”

“Nothing,” Draco said.

The Auror held up one finger. “That is wrong,” he said. “The Carrows are both in Azkaban.”

“And did you go storming up to Hogwarts to get them?” Hermione asked. “As soon as you heard what was happening.”

“There was a war on.”

“So, no.” Hermione turned a falsely bright face to Neville. “So, clearly, in some circumstances, Unforgivable Curses can be overlooked.”

“I cursed Bellatrix once,” Harry said conversationally. He was rubbing his wrists where the ropes had been. “And Alecto too.”

“And thank you for that confession,” the Auror said. “It will make the trial go more quickly, save some money. Ignatius?”

A slender man stepped forward, lanky hair falling over his ears. This must be the man these fools thought would be escorting Harry Potter to wherever they planned to stash him. Someplace harder to get than this. Someplace secure, where even the Minister for Magic would have trouble going.

It wouldn’t stand.

They shouldn’t have been able to take down a room of Aurors. Even as it was happening, Draco couldn’t believe it. Hermione struck first, and the unfortunate Ignatius went down, victim of nothing more than surprise and a body binding. The head Auror had his wand out in an instant and fired a curse toward them. Draco didn’t recognize it – something specific to Auror training, he supposed -- but the way it hissed suggested it was something nasty. Hermione ducked, flung back something far less pleasant than a body bind, and the Auror grabbed at his arm in shock.

“Maybe more time in the field?” Potter suggested and sent a second curse the man’s way before whirling and yanking one man’s wand from his grasp. 

Even in battle, Harry Potter relied on just snatching things away. It was unbelievable.

Draco cursed, spun, cursed again. He took something to the shoulder that burned, but he passed his wand to his other hand and kept going. Voldemort had liked to hurt people, then make them use their weak hands to fight. It had _amused_ him. Draco would never be as good with his left hand, but he wasn’t helpless.

That Auror should have cursed to kill.

Draco didn’t kill him. Even caught in the midst of what had to be madness, he remembered that. Bad enough to attack Aurors inside the Ministry. That alone would land them all in Azkaban. But to kill them? Could there be something worse than prison? Could the Ministry find Dementors lolling about on vacation somewhere and invite them back to suck out his soul?

Another Auror fell, this one to Neville. 

. . . . . . . . . .

It feels good. That’s what you don’t want to admit to yourself. You spend so much time keeping everything you feel in a bottle, on a leash, under control. But now you let it go. You think _chains,_ and you swing your wand toward one Auror, and he falls. You think_ blood quills_ and _beatings_ and _the scars on your wrists_ and you attack. You _scream_ at them because _how dare they_ stand there and say killing one man – one would-be Death Eater – costs a man everything when they weren’t there.

When they didn’t stop it before.

“Where were you,” you breathe out, curses flinging themselves from your wand so quickly you don’t even have to say the words. You don’t have to form the spells in the space of your mind and speak the words to make them real. Your wand takes your rage and the stone floor against your cheek and your wrists and gives it all shape. Gives it power. 

Flings that power in their faces.

_You’d forget your head, Neville, I swear._

_They were good. Your parents were so, so good._

_Can’t do anything without Hermione Granger whispering the answers in your ear._

And they fall. All of them. Draco takes one down, you see that, and Hermione another. Harry, too, his hands on his wand, but it’s you who does the bulk of the work. You don’t even need to _think_ the spells. You just are magic. Magic incarnate. It’s wonderful.

And then there’s a hand on your shoulder. Theo. You blink, and the room falls into a focus you hadn’t realized it had lost. Everything is sharp and clear. The floor is littered with bodies.

“Did I…?” you ask.

“They aren’t dead,” Hermione says rapidly. “Frozen, most of them. A few unconscious.” 

“We need to clean up,” you say. Your voice shakes. So many people. So many _trained_ people and they’re all down.

Hermione kneels next to one, touches her wand to his forehead. “_Obliviate,” _she says softly. When she’s done, she moves to the next one. And the next. And the next. 

“What were you thinking?” you ask Harry. You’re grateful. He saved Theo. You’re irritated. Why did he have to charge off on his own?

“Thought I’d do a little undercover work,” Harry says. He runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Probably should have cleared it first.”

“Yeah,” you say. “You probably should have.”

Hermione stands up. She brushes dust from her knees, then picks up the box of biscuits she’d brought. “Let’s go,” she says.

“You aren’t leaving them?” Draco asks, wiggling his hand vaguely in the direction of the pastry box.

“It’s not as if they’ll remember,” she says. 

“Waste of good biscuits,” Theo says.

You hold the door for them to leave. You follow and don’t look back at the men getting up off the floor in confusion, wandering back to their desks, settling down to do paperwork or read a memo or take orders for who wants a spot of tea. They’re all behind you now.

. . . . . . . . . .

It is worth noting at this point that very few people consider themselves evil, even if perhaps they should. If you were to sit down and interview the worst monsters of history (and people have) and ask whether they felt their actions were justified, they’d sit on the porch where you met them. They’d rock back and forth in their wicker chair. They’d pick up their iced water – they often avoid intoxicants – and smile. “Oh yes,” they’d say. “I did what was necessary. I have no regrets.”

And you’d sit there, recorder in hand, and try to think of something to say. You’d think of the dead bodies. The mass graves. The _horror. _

But the monster never thinks he’s evil. 

. . . . . . . . .

Draco wanted to punch Harry Potter in the face. His hands curled into fists, then released, then curled up again. In lieu of violence, he paced. Started at one side of his own, immaculate flat and put one foot in front of the other. Moved from kitchen to bookshelves and back again. Theo had the sense to look guilty whenever Draco looked his way. He didn’t try to defend himself. Potter, however…

“What were you thinking?” Neville demanded. He’d flung himself down into one of the perfect chairs Narcissa had purchased, taken the drink Hermione handed him, and stared at Potter absolutely furiously. “What _the fuck_ were you thinking.”

Potter flushed at that. Draco had uncharitable thoughts about the red of his skin and the green of his eyes looking like Christmas. They should put an angel on his head, stick him in the corner.

“I wanted to know what they were thinking,” Potter said. “I told Hermione.”

Hermione braced her shoulders under Neville’s glare. “I told him not to do it,” she said. “I wrote him _from Paris_ and told him not to.”

“But, of course, you didn’t listen,” Neville said. “Not the great Harry Potter. He’s above all the rules. Things always work out for him. He’s the _Chosen One_.”

“I didn’t mean – “

“You didn’t _think_.” Neville almost hisses the words. “You just went tromping in without a plan or a – “

“I was working undercover,” Harry snapped back. 

He was the Chosen One, after all. The Auror. The Slayer of the Monster. Maybe he thought he shouldn’t have to sit here and be told off. Draco turned on his heel, leaving the books behind and facing the kitchen again. Bloody worthless prat.

“Harry Potter going undercover.” Neville sounds like he can’t believe anyone would be that stupid. “Did you think a bunch of Voldemort worshippers weren’t going to recognize the man who killed him?”

“They don’t worship Voldemort,” Theo said softly. The words made everyone turn and glare at him. He spread his hands. “They don’t. They just – “

“They just like his ideas,” Draco managed to get out. “Isn’t that bad enough? Don’t we know where those ideas go?”

“We do.” Theo looked down at his feet. He wasn’t going to fight any of them. Not on this. Lessons learned all too well.

“Did you really think they’d fall for the idea that you – you, of all people – would be interested in joining them?” Neville asked. He picked up a stray decorative item Draco’s mother had insisted on and weighed it for a moment in his hand. Draco waited for him to lob it at the floor, the wall, Potter, but instead, he put it down. Self-control. 

“Yes,” Potter said. He sounded more subdued now. “I figured they’d think it was a coup.”

“It would have been,” Draco said. “It wasn’t even a bad idea –

Hermione opened her mouth, and he held his hand up to stop her because it _hadn’t _been a bad idea. Harry and Theo could have gone into that group and strung them along and learned anything and everything about them. They’d probably been nothing but a bunch of blowhards until this had happened. But now Harry Potter had killed one of them, and they’d never see a trial. Never see him suffer. If they asked the Ministry about it, they’d end up lost in the circles of justification the obliviated used to explain their actions.

“See,” Potter said. “If Malfoy agrees with me – “

“But you fucked it up,” Neville said. “_Not a bad idea_ would have involved you keeping your sodding mouths shut. It would have involved you listening and pretending they weren’t full of shite.”

“I just – “

“_Fucked up_,” Neville said again.

. . . . . . . . . .

Most groups try to recruit new members by telling them how wonderful they are. How special. How they’ve been chosen because of that very specialness. It’s a pretty good psychological tool and plays into people’s desires to belong and their petty insecurities. Peculiarly – though perhaps unsurprisingly – Harry Potter ended up in the thick of it not because anyone told him he was great but because they told him he’d fucked everything up.

. . . . . . . . . .

“I’m sorry,” Harry snapped. “Maybe if I knew more of what was going on, I wouldn’t mess up any of your oh-so-precious plans.”

Neville stopped at that. He seemed to deflate, a balloon slowly losing its air, and he sank down into a chair.

“You told us you weren’t interested,” Draco said. “Remember?”

“Yeah?” Potter asked. 

Draco stared him down because _exactly_ yeah. Potter had sat there and laughed that Hermione wasn’t quite as worried about rules as she had been before the war, then walked out. He hadn’t turned them in, but he hadn’t joined up either. Hadn’t even come back to have a drink. “Yeah,” he said.

Potter met his eyes. “Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for doing her best to herd me along as a beta reader. 


	32. Chapter 32

People can join up and people can get murdered, but none of that matters to your grandmother. She has you on her calendar for tea at three o’clock and, by god, you’ll be there. You’d rather face down a room filled with furious aurors than her so you shine your shoes and press your trousers and ask Theo how you look.

He drags his eyes up from your shoes, lingering long enough at your cock that it starts to harden, then smiling into your eyes. “Good enough to eat,” he says.

You wish you had time. You wish you could _make_ time. But time obeys no man, and so looking as presentable as you can with Theo behind you, you apparate home. 

Your grandmother is waiting for you in the solarium, dark purple dress buttoned up to her chin and narrow sleeves fitted along her wrists. You’d think she’d be hot, but she gives no sign she’s ever bothered by something as insignificant as the temperature. You can already feel sweat beading up at the back of your neck as you lean forward to plant a dry kiss on her cheek. “You’re looking well,” you say gallantly as you sit down.

Theo bends over her hand and kisses her knuckles. “Ma’am,” is all he says. She sniffs at the sight of him but forbears to open her mouth and complain he’s there. 

Instead, she goes down another, equally unpleasant, road. “You look more like your father every day,” she says. “Have you visited him recently?”

You have. You go every other day, alone and silent, up the wards to sit with them. Your mother gives you gum wrappers. You tell your father about Theo. About plants. About the weather. You keep it light. Happy. You don’t tell them you have dreams where you’re drowning. You don’t tell them how powerful you felt when you were angry. When you were righteous. How you want that feeling again.

You say, “Yes. There’s a new nurse on the ward.”

“Be sure to send her a package of fruit cake at Christmas,” your gran says. She spreads a napkin in her lap and reaches for a biscuit, the sign you’re allowed to begin eating. You start to move your hand toward the tea pot, then stop. It hangs there, mid-air, your eyes caught on the scars.

“What’s the matter?” she asks peevishly. She’s old, your grandmother. You’ve never noticed that before. She raised a son, lost him to a war, raised a grandson, almost lost him too. Lost you. Maybe she feels she has. Maybe she feels the lack of grandchildren is a loss and loss has piled on loss and now she can’t bear any more.

She won’t look at Theo. Won’t admit he’s more than a fellow you live with.

You should be angry. You should be _raging_, but there are so many things in your life that make you want to rage, and this… this just makes you sad. Sad for you, certainly, and sad for Theo, but mostly sad for her. She’d always seemed like a tower of forthright, unmovable strength. She would keep having tea if the Empire crumbled around her and barbarian hordes overran the estate because that was _what one did. _If you lived your life by the rules, you didn’t have to bend and you could be sure you were a good person.

Good. Your father was _so good_.

You put your hand down in your lap and run your thumb over the scar tissue. At first, you’d thought she could save you. She was so strong. So _indomitable_ surely she could march into Hogwarts and make things right. Only, of course, she couldn’t. No one could. And then you’d felt betrayed, and that wasn’t fair. She was a small woman, tiny in her chair, looking at you out from under a grey pouf of hair. 

She did the best she could. She’s doing the best she can. And it isn’t enough, but all you feel is sorry for her.

“Neville?” she asks again.

You take your hands out of your lap and begin to pour the tea. “It’s nothing, gran,” you say. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to be here with the two people I love most in the world.”

Theo smiles at you. It’s a small thing, but it’s there.

You pick up the plate of biscuits and hold it out for him. “I’d hate to lose one of you because you simply couldn’t accept Theodore,” you add.

Her head snaps up at that, and you smile so very, very blandly. “I forget,” you say. “Do you like milk in your tea?”

Her eyes narrow, then she says so waspishly you have to hide your smile, “I do, but Theo can pour. You always add too much.”

She’s never been anything to fear. You don’t need to tolerate things because you are afraid. You don’t need to tolerate anything. Never again.

. . . . . . . . . .

Corban Yaxley had good grooming. That was the first, inane thought that went through Draco’s mind as he slipped into the back of the book signing. His trousers were pressed and his shirt immaculate and his blond hair was long enough to make it clear he wasn’t some Muggle politician, but short enough it just curled around his chin with the faintest hint of unruly life. He wore his age well, and conveyed an air of respectable gravitas.

Draco wanted to curse him on the spot.

He also wanted to slink away, find a dark corner, put his head down. He’d been noticed, and that hadn’t worked out well. 

(mouth on his cock in a dusty room behind a door that didn’t open for everyone)

Well, it had worked out well enough for that – for what he was now, for _who he was _now – but the cost had been high. A little too much shoe leather and far too little public recognition of what he’d done. What _all_ of them had done. Pansy had pulled the eyes of men like this to herself in class, asked questions, pretended to be stupid, and for what? To delay the torture of students who didn’t even like her for another ten minutes. And what had she gotten in return? A life on the continent, and it wasn’t that he felt _bad_ for Pansy. Right now, she was probably in a café smiling her brittle red smile at some hapless wizard who’d spend the rest of the month sending her flowers and writing her love poems. But she also couldn’t come back here. She lived in exile from her home, driven off by nightmares and history and – let’s be honest – the fear she’d get sneered at in the streets.

Britain had its share of flaws, and Draco had enjoyed his trip to France, but it was impossible not to feel kinship for the soil where his roots were. Impossible not to feel he belonged here and anywhere else he would be a hothouse flower, delicate, exotic, imported. Prone to withering.

Better to be a weed in one’s own land. Better to push his way up through the cracks in the pavement and hang on with painful tenacity.

Yaxley signed another book, said a few things in a warm voice. The line moved forward. 

Draco slouched against the endcap of one shelf of books and watched and listened.

“I’m so grateful for your book,” an older man said. “I think it lays bare a few of the flaws in our society.

“I’m so glad you found it helpful.” Yaxley is humble. Grateful. Penitent. He’s charming and honeyed. A honey pot, attracting the flies who line up to fall into the gooey mess. 

“I never really understood...”

“Nothing’s ever black and white, is it. All human interactions have such complexity…”

“You’re so brave to be this honest.”

Brave. Draco wanted to spit out the word in a fury. He wanted to _crucio_ the idiot woman who said it, with her bright pink nails and her teased hair. Let her find out what it meant to be brave. Let her scrape herself along the floor of this bookshop and press her chapped lips to Yaxley’s boot, then, pain still ringing along her bones, pull her hands and her mind into a brewing session and defy him with every chop, every stir, every cork pushed into every bottle.

And then let not a single person in all of Britain know she’d done it, or care. Let them spit on her as a coward and a lackey and _just as bad as the rest of them_.

He turned and walked out of the store. He was done with this.

. . . . . . . . . .

_except from an unsent letter_

_… went to this great talk in Paris while we were there about immigration. Draco got me her book, and I’ve been reading it in between things at work and I think she makes a lot of really salient points, though I’m not sure if immigration to Britain is the problem we’re facing here. What people really resent is immigration to the magical world. I mean, the nonsense about “stealing magic” has stopped, possibly because I made a decree that anyone heard mouthing anything of the sort in the Ministry was to be sacked at once, no explanations, no second chances. But the feeling is still there, and out in the general populace as well. I spend a lot of time wondering how it intersects with the near revulsion people feel about squibs. Not Filch, of course. Anyone would have been disgusted by him. But Ron has that uncle or cousin or something no one talks about who went and became an accountant. Respectable job, accounting. It’s not like skulking about corridors with a sneer on your face talking about beating students._

_Sudden awful thought. What sort of men’s magazines do you think Filch liked?_

_Everyone’s so afraid of people without magic, and that fear turns into hate, or a sort of taboo avoidance. It doesn’t make any sense, and …_

. . . . . . . . . .

The warden is as unpleasant as ever, but this time you don’t ask to see the prisoners. This time you wave your hand at him, wand held lightly between your fingers, and the power flows out of you, gathers itself along the thin bit of wood, and then launches at the warden.

He falls without a word.

You open the door and walk steadily down the hall until you see Amycus Carrow. He’s sitting up, his spine straight but relaxed, and he smiles when he sees you.

He _smiles_.

You’ve seen that smile in nightmares. It should be sending you into a spiral you can’t escape, but it doesn’t. You can’t hate a cockroach. Men like him, they’re just a consequence of monsters. Voldemort spawned tiny versions of himself, growing from his hate and his lust for power but the man in front of you is nothing. He’s an echo. He wants to be, that’s all.

“I was afraid of you,” you say. Not that you owe him an explanation. You don’t owe him anything, but it feels orderly to put the words one in front of the other so you’re going to do it. “We were all afraid of you.”

His eyes glitter. Maybe he was a small boy, once. Maybe he and Alecto were scared and small and held on to one another in the face of a world that called them slow and thick and told them they were never going to amount to anything. Maybe their parents beat them. Maybe Filch’s oft repeated claims that back in the day whippings and chains had been ordinary punishments at Hogwarts had been true. Maybe Filch had closed manacles around Amycus’ wrists once.

It doesn’t matter.

“Fear is an excellent teacher,” he says softly. “Fear and pain.”

It’s true enough. It certainly taught you. You raise your wand, meet his eyes, and eliminate him. He falls, his knees giving out first, then his chest toppling forward. His chin catches the edge of the bars that cage him and you hear the crack of breaking bone.

(crack of the whip)

Someone will have to clean up the blood from where he hit his mouth when they take his body away. Well, the warden has a job. He should get out from behind that desk more often. Exercise is good for the heart.

You don’t even explain yourself to Alecto. She dies sitting on her bed, glaring at you with sullen, hate-filled eyes. The curse feels wonderful in your mouth. You want to say it again and again and again.

Magic is great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for beta reading and to all of you for reading. A storyteller needs an audience and, without you, I am only talking to myself.


	33. Chapter 33

The rumors won’t be still. _Harry Potter murdered a man._ They start out quietly enough. A whispered conversation in a pub. It’s a bit clumsy to admit that the peaceful book club deteriorated into a man holding a wand to someone’s head and threatening to torture him. Easier to skim over that. 

“There was a fight.”

“Well, boys will be boys.”

“All those kids from the war – they all probably need so much help.”

Not that killing a man could be justified. Even with a threat in hand, it was still murder. But it was cleaner to leave out the part where it might have been just a little bit in self-defense. Or friend-defense. _Harry Potter killed him_.

The rest of the gathered Knights of Walpurgis stood around the body, too shocked to do anything at first. Then an Auror was called, and Harry Potter was taken away, and they gathered the body up and took it home to his parents. Everyone wept. Screamed. Threatened to skin the man who did it alive. To make him suffer the way the parents of the dead boy were suffering.

They had a hole in their lives now, and nothing would fill it.

Rage helped.

But Aurors had taken him away, and it would be fine. He would be tried. There were so many witnesses. He would go to Azkaban the way he deserved. Maybe the war had broken him. It was too bad. So sad. But there were laws and limits and right and wrong.

Only, the trial never came.

The other Knights waited to be called into the Ministry, to give their testimony, and there was nothing but silence. One _ – _a strapping young lad of 27 who agreed whole-heartedly that Voldemort had been too much and who stood in line three hours to get Corban Yaxley to sign his copy of _Contrition – _went into the Ministry to see what was happening. 

No one knew what he was talking about. Any inquiries about Harry Potter ended up going in circles. He worked here, they all agreed, but had no idea where he was. In Bulgaria, maybe? Potter did a lot of travel work. Trial? Was Potter scheduled to testify at any trial? No one could recall. Maybe check with the main secretary?

“He murdered someone,” the Knight said in a tight voice. This was unbelievable. He knew the Ministry was bureaucratic and incompetent, but this left him stunned. 

“We don’t really count what happened in the war as murder,” one Auror said patronizingly. “Killing Voldemort wasn’t really murder.”

And so whispers began, passed from one Knight to another, to sympathetic people outside the Walpurgis order. _Harry Potter killed a man. The Ministry is covering it up. _

“You know that Muggle-born Minister is a friend of his. You can’t trust her type.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_She’s a pretty young woman and was probably a pretty girl during the war. There’s a scar on her forehead. She wears bangs to cover it up, and heavy makeup, and charms, but the word ‘sneak’ can still be read if someone wants to play connect-the-dots. She’s sitting with the reporter in a tiny cafe. Her eyes are wide, and if there’s a malicious glint to them, well, it’s probably nothing but reflections from the oil lamps._

_The reporter opens his notebook. This is the sort of thing that can make a career. “So, you knew the Minister at Hogwarts?”_

_“Oh, yes,” the girl says. She leans forward, and those eyes dart from one side of the room to the other. “This is off the record, right? You won’t use my name.”_

_“Of course not,” the reporter assures her. “Protecting your sources is an important part of journalism.” He’s read a pile of books as high as his nightstand and two deep on American political crises and sources with snicker-inducing names like ‘Deep Throat.’ He can already see himself, humbly accepting an award for truth and integrity in reporting. He’ll give speeches about how he shone a light on corruption in the Ministry. He’s already got a title picked out for his first book. _A Hero Falls. _“Are you afraid of the Minister?” he asks._

_He really wants the answer to be yes. The girl he’s talking to doesn’t disappoint. She nods her head and bites at her lip. “She’s vindictive,” the girl whispers. “And she dabbles in dark magic, or she did at school.”_

_“At Hogwarts?” The reporter is genuinely shocked by that. Dumbledore’s star is a bit tarnished, but no one’s ever questioned he was a shining beacon of light. This could be a much bigger story than he’s dared to dream._

_The girl nods. “At least once I know she used a dark hex she created herself. There were probably more times. Everyone warns you against the dark arts because no one stops once they start.”_

_“Tell me everything,” the reporter says. “I want to know everything.”_

_And Marietta Edgecomb smiles._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

You don’t think it will happen that quickly. You’d been so cautious. You haven’t even _done_ anything. You’ve put Hermione in a position of power. You’ve protected Harry, but everyone loves Harry, and no one cares who the Minister is.

And you’ve murdered a few people, but they were in Azkaban, and they had it coming. It wasn’t as if they were good people. They were torturers. They’d been brutal to you, brutal to your friends. You still woke from nightmares where you’re trying to force a potion down Draco’s mouth and it runs out runs out runs out because he’s never going to swallow anything again.

Sometimes he shifts to Theo in your arms. 

Those are the nights you wake up screaming.

But the point is, the Carrows did this to you. Voldemort, yes, and also Bellatrix, and also Filch and also the Carrows.

And more. Azkaban has more Death Eaters locked behind its doors. Dolohov. Lestrange. MacNair. So many. You want to see them all suffer. You want to _make_ them all suffer the way they made you suffer. But as you hold the paper with its story about Hermione — with its _expose_ — you know everything has happened too quickly. You can’t go up to the north sea and bleed off rage whenever it bubbles up too hot to be contained. You can’t pick off the remaining scum from the last war.

You have to deal with this. 

“I take it you aren’t happy?” Theo’s voice drawls from a chair where he’s stretched out, all long legs and dark hair. A bright light from the window hits his hands, but his face is in shadow.

“Would you be?”

“I’m already not,” he says. He twists the paper out of your hand with magic both voiceless and windless. Showy. It bursts into flame in the air, and ashes fall to the ground. They hang in the sunbeam, caught and held by the light for just a moment before they drift to the dark floor. “Hermione’s a good… she _fought_ for them, and now they turn on her?”

You nod. It’s infuriating. How dare they. How _dare_ they. Hermione’s a better witch, a better fighter, a better anything you care to name than the reporter who penned that atrocity. Questioning her. Doubting her. “Let’s go,” you say.

“Where?” Theo is already up, already joining you. 

“The Daily Prophet,” you say grimly. You have a thing or two to explain to them.

_. . . . . . . . . ._

“Mr. Longbottom.” The receptionist beamed with professional delight and an absolute lack of interest in letting them past. “Was anyone expecting you?”

Draco pulled out his wand and rolled it between his hands. “Come,” Neville had said, so he had, no questions asked. He didn’t think they had an appointment. 

“No,” Neville said. “But maybe you could help me.” He leaned on her desk, all affable smiles. All charm. He’d been a fat little boy once, stammering and awkward and inept. He’d never been afraid to challenge someone. How much less afraid he was now.

“I’ll try,” the receptionist said.

“Could you tell me the name of the reporter who wrote the piece on the Minister?” he asked.

The receptionist looked suddenly wary, and Draco turned on his own charm. “We just wanted to see if he was interested in doing a more well-rounded piece,” he said. “Give him some of Hermione’s friends to talk to as well as anonymous school mates with a grudge.”

“I’ll ring him,” the receptionist said.

The man who merged from the bowels of the paper, poking his head out from an old metal door, couldn’t have been more than a few years their senior. Old enough to have gotten out of Hogwarts before it got bad. Young enough that he should have known better. Neville took his hand and said a few polite things about the quality of his writing, his interest — all their interest — in presenting the other side of the story. He shook his head, then his eyes glazed. “Maybe we could have coffee?” he said

“I just got biscuits from a new bakery this morning,” Theo said as though the reporter had suggested the most brilliant thing possible. “Neville doesn’t like chocolate, so if you come ‘round, I won’t be tempted to eat all of them myself.”

“That sounds wonderful,” the reporter said. “Let me get my quill, and we’ll be off.”

He did, and they left. Draco paused at the front desk of The Daily Prophet to watch the group of them walk away. Theo hooked his arm through the man’s, and they chatted in a way anyone might call amiable. Theo almost flirted, turning on all his charm. Their heads were close to one another, and the reporter never seemed to notice how they were in a bubble of their own. Neville flicked his wand back and forth as they walked. Eyes slid off them. He didn’t make them invisible, exactly. He made them unremarkable. He made everything else more interesting. A tricky spell. Not one in the standard school books, but one that had been very useful that last year at school. 

Draco smiled at the receptionist. “_Obliviate_,” he said. She fumbled the quill she was holding, and he was out the door before she realized he’d ever been there.

. . . . . . . . . .

The _Imperio_ wears off once he’s in your flat. It’s all you’d pushed him to do, after all. Agree to go with these men because you are greedy. Because you are ambitious. Because you already see yourself as famous and you like it. Because Neville Longbottom is a war hero and an interview catch, and you’ll put a whole chapter in your book about his misguided love for his friend. You’ll give interviews. You’ll be so sincere.

Theo flips the latch on the door. The click of the lock is very loud.

Draco casts _Muffliato._

The reporter sits down in one of your chairs. “Were you ever tortured?” you ask him.

“No.” He shakes his head.

“My parents were.” You’re terribly conversational about it. “Bellatrix Lestrange, maybe the name rings a bell?”

“Of course.” He’s irritated now, but willing to play along. He wants his interview. 

“I was,” Theo says. He drops into a chair opposite him. “Do you want to know why?”

He makes an encouraging noise.

“I refused to torture someone.”

“Noble,” he says. His eyes gleam. He picks up his quill and opens a notebook. “Not what one expects from the son of a Death Eater, if I may be so bold.”

“You may not.” That’s Draco. He’s put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and curls his fingers into his flesh hard enough that he tries, discreetly, to pull away. Draco doesn’t let him. He leans down and puts his face right near his. “Are you afraid?”

“You should let me go,” he says. 

Draco takes his hand away.

“Not as noble as you think,” Theo says. He’s smiling now. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him smile about this. “We weren’t allowed to say no, you see. Especially the sons of Death Eaters. We were supposed to set a good example.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “You refused. You — “

“No,” Theo says very gently. “Or rather, only at first. And then they explained to me what that refusal meant, and I begged for the chance to be allowed to do the lesson.”

“Pain is an excellent teacher,” you say. “We all learned a lot of lessons that year.”

“I’m sure it was very difficult.” His eyes are flicking toward the door as if he’s measuring the distance. Wondering if he can get up and run. Wondering if he can escape all three of you. At least he’s smart enough to have realized escape is his best option.

“From the forge comes the strongest steel,” Draco says. “From pressure comes diamonds.”

“Does the Minister know you’re here?” he asks.

“You mean the corrupt Minister?” Draco asks. “You mean _my wife?”_

He runs then. You let him get close enough to put his hand on the knob, then you stop him. “Too bad,” you say. “You were so close. But lessons have to be learned.” You shove him toward Draco, who catches him and shoves him in turn to Theo. 

Theo holds the reporter in place for a moment then says, “Want to try again?”

Draco trips him as he rushes past, and he stumbles to the floor, his hands dropping his precious quill and notebook in order to break his fall. “You aren’t very good at this,” Draco says. He kicks the man. “Try again.”

This time he backs away, his eyes on all of you. His hand is at his waist, fumbling for his wand. You can tell he’s never been in a real fight. Anyone who survived Hogwarts would have had that out long ago. He points it wildly at Theo, then Draco. “I’m calling the Aurors,” he says.

Draco laughs, and he turns the wand on him. It’s shaking so hard any spell would go careening off, breaking pots and knocking down books but leaving him unscathed. “How do you plan to do that when you can’t even get to the door?” he asks. He takes a few short steps toward the poor man, and he backs away. They keep this dance up until the reporter’sback is against the wall and Draco’s pressing himself against him. He holds the man there, keeping him in place with his own body for a few, very long seconds. Then Draco plucks the wand out of his hand and breaks it. “I don’t like people slandering my wife,” he says. “I think you should apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” he says desperately, but Draco’s already turned his back on him.

“Theo, where you do you keep the whiskey?”

“Kitchen,” he says. “Glasses above the sink.”

“Do you want one?” Draco asks as he leaves you all and strides off. The reporter stands, frozen, as you all hear the sounds of the cupboard opening, glasses being brought down, then a loud, “Fuck, really?”

Draco sticks his head back into the room, holding a bottle. “All you have is blended,” he says.

“Oh, excuse me,” Theo says. “I didn’t realize we were having company.”

“You should keep good whiskey around for yourself,” Draco says before stomping back into the kitchen.

“I’ll be going,” the reporter says. He takes two, cautious steps before racing for the door. You step between him and his escape and smile. He shudders.

“I’ll tell you what,” Theo says. “I’ll hit you with half of what they used on me when I tried to take a stand, and if you can endure it without begging, we’ll let you go.”

“_Crucio._”

He begs almost at once. First for them to stop. Then he promises he’ll do anything they want, write anything they want. He’ll take it all back.

Eventually, he begs to die.

You squat down and grab his chin. “Welcome to school,” you say. “These are the lessons we were taught. Only we survived it.”

Then you kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Olivie Blake for saving me from so many of the mistakes I am determined to make. 


	34. Chapter 34

Draco went home after they killed the reporter. 

They’d all stood, wands hangings at their sides, not sure what to do after he stopped breathing. Then Theo said, “Well, if you plan to make an object lesson of him, better throw the body into the street,” and Draco pointed out that a random dead guy wasn’t going to be all that much of a message and so Neville went out to buy another copy of _The Daily Prophet. _A quick apparition left the reporter on the front steps of the paper, his last article pinned to his chest along with a note that said, simply, “No.”

And then he went home, rewashed his hands, and sat down to undress. He pulled off one shoe first, then stopped and stared at it, transfixed not so much by the shoe itself but by the sheer oddness of his situation. Life crept up on you. One day, you were hunching your shoulders and hurrying down the corridor of a school, hoping not to be noticed, and the next you were married and sitting in your flat after committing murder.

He should feel bad. He should feel guilty. Instead, all he could think was, _Bastard probably never even saw a single Death Eater up close._

No, that wasn’t the only thing in his mind.

He felt disgusting for even thinking about it, but dear God, he was in the fucking _mood. _Maybe he could rub one out before Hermione got home.

The sound of the door opening nixed that idea.

Draco took off the other shoe and met her in the front room of their flat. She greeted him with the distracted smile people wore at the end of the day. She opened her mouth to say something — probably some generic and pleasant question about how had his day been — and he grabbed her shoulders and almost bit at her mouth in his urgency. 

This. 

Her. 

Now. 

His mind seemed to melt down, and any other thoughts disappeared into the vast ocean of desire. She tasted like stale coffee. She smelled like the Ministry. Rotten bastards. Filled with corruption, all of them. Not a one of them had stood up to Voldemort. Not one. 

She dropped her bag. Draco heard it hit the floor of their flat with a loud thunk, but even as his senses registered sound and taste and that she was shutting the door behind her he didn’t care about any of that. He’d have fucked her up against a tree in a public park. He’d have fucked her in a broom closet at Hogwarts. He certainly didn’t care if the door to their flat was open. He cared that the buttons on her blouse were tricky and his hands were fumbling with them. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t get her out, get her free. He finally ripped the thing apart. 

Her brassiere was harder to pull off, so he shoved it up above her breasts. His mouth was on one, tongue on the hardening nipple. God, her body was amazing. The swell of her breasts, the color of her nipples, the way the one he flicked his tongue against became a point. He rubbed his thumb against the other, rolling it back and forth. “You’re in a — “ Hermione said, but she didn’t get the rest out because he pushed her against the wall and went for her mouth. 

She was doing something with her hands. Twisting and reaching, but he was too busy to pay attention. He scraped his teeth along her lip, demanding she open her mouth to him, and when she did, he groaned. He grabbed at her hair with one hand, twisting it, pulling her head tighter against his, even as his other hand dropped down to brush against her nipples again. 

The fabric of her bra dropped, the silk sliding against his skin on the way down. Draco realized she'd been taking it off with the hands that now reached for the edge of his shirt. He broke away long enough to let Hermione pull the fabric over his head. He could have kissed her again, but what he really wanted wasn’t her mouth. He dropped down to his knees and fumbled with the waistband of her skirt, then thought, fuck it and shoved it up and over her waist.

She’d worn matching knickers, and he pressed his mouth against them, breathing in the musky scent of her, before lapping at her through the fabric. She was wet already — so wet she was soaked — and he growled for a moment. His. She was his, and he was hers. None of those fools should ever be allowed to do so much as look at her without awe. Without fear.

She gasped, leaned back against the wall, and fisted her hands in his hair. “Off,” she said. “Take them off.”

Draco nuzzled his nose against her, then slowly and deliberately dragged his tongue over the fabric. “Ask nicely.”

“Fucking well take them off.”

“That wasn’t nicely.” He licked at the fabric again. He could taste her through it and, when she let out a whimper, he laughed. 

“I’m going to kill you.”

He licked at her again, then grazed his teeth along the fabric. This got him a whimper that was a little more desperate. He rewarded her for that with the brush of his tongue at her skin right at the edge of her knickers. He curled it under the side of the fabric then, as she tried to drag his face tighter against her, stopped. “Nicely,” he prompted.

“Draco.” There was a desperate edge to her voice now. He could stretch this out. Tease her until she was clinging to him. Get anything he wanted from her with just the flick of his tongue.

He pressed his hands against her hips, holding her to the wall, almost splaying her out before him, and blew softly on the soaked knickers. She shuddered. “You’re getting closer to being polite,” he said. “But the longer it takes you to get there, the more particular I will be in what I will accept as nicely.”

Her hands clenched in his hair, and he ran his tongue right at the edge of the knickers again. “Just think,” he said, “of all the things I could be doing to you right now if you only wanted me to.” He slid a finger under the fabric and grazed it across a spot he knew she particularly liked, and a glorious, keening whimper came out of her. He held that finger right above her and waited.

“I hate you,” she said. “Draco, just do it already.”

He reached his hands around her, grabbed at the hem of her knickers, and dragged them down over her arse. She gasped and pushed herself forward, already anticipating his tongue on her. He pulled at the fabric, lowered his mouth to bared skin, and brushed his tongue over a spot just a little too high to be what she wanted. “Beg me,” he said. 

She stiffened.

“And make the words pretty.”

He waited, and there was an agonizing pause as he wanted nothing more than to dive into her, to feel her squirm under his attentions, to explore every inch of her but, by god, he was going to tease her until she said what he wanted. Another brush of his mouth, lips grazing her skin. Another soft whisper of air against sensitive nerves, and then she said, “Please, I’m begging you, please don’t make me wait any longer.”

It was enough. Draco dragged her down to the floor, and her legs splayed out as he pressed his mouth against her. Flick the tongue here. Lap there. They’d been married long enough — together long enough — that he knew everything she liked. More to the one side than the other. His nails curved into her arse as he lifted her towards him. She was trembling under him, and her hands clutched at his back. She tensed, her whole body going rigid, and then one last shudder ran through her. 

She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and said, “Now. In me.”

Draco didn’t need a second invitation. He fumbled with his trousers, getting them down just enough to free a cock so hard he was going to lose what little he had left of his mind. Then he dragged himself up and, hovering for just a moment, plunged down into her. This was everything. Heaven. Hell. Wet, and warm, and nothing else mattered in all the world but the feel of her body around him. He let out a gasp. There was no longer reason or time or anything at all but her. The feel of her. The taste of her on his mouth. He lost himself in her and didn’t want to ever be found.

And he was done. Bereft. Completed. He let his forehead fall against hers and breathed out her name like a prayer of thanks. “Hermione." Then he pulled out and collapsed next to her. 

They lay there for a minute or two. Long enough Draco had begun to realize how absurd they looked, half-dressed still, his trousers around his knees, stretched out on the floor of their flat. He rolled to the side and pushed a wild lock of curly hair behind one of her ears. “How was your day?” he asked as if he hadn’t greeted her at the door with ravenous hunger. As if she hadn’t begged him to ravish her. As if he hadn’t made her do it.

She laughed and propped herself up on one elbow. “A bit frustrating,” she said. “Work was just… oh, I could scream, but this was a great way to come home. What happened to you?”

Draco stood up and began to pull his clothes back up and on. This might become a trifle awkward, and he didn’t want his pants around his knees for it. “We went to talk to a reporter at _The Prophet,_” he said.

“And that turned you into this?” Hermione asked. “I think I might want you to spend more time at the newspaper.”

He let out a short laugh.

(Filch laughing as the chains went on)

(No. No more. Never again. Draco fastens his trousers and closes out the sound of the laughter, of the clink of the metal. That’s done. He’ll do what it takes to keep it over, and Filch can rot in his grave.)

“You might not think that once you know why.”

“Oh?” Hermione sat up and began rearranging her own clothes. The knickers were discarded as too wet to put back on — that gave Draco a bit of smug satisfaction — but she accioed her bra, doing one of those feminine contortions to pour herself back into it. “What happened?”

Draco was surprised she hadn’t read the article yet. He’d have expected people to slide it onto her desk, eager to be the bearers of bad news, delighted to gloat in the face of a Minister who’d been elected so young. Their own copy was still on the sill where it had been dropped by an owl that morning. Draco picked it up, shaking off a loose feather, and handed it over.

Hermione read, idly at first, one hand still smoothing her skirt back over her hips. He could tell when she got angry. She folded the paper back with a quick gesture and held the article a bit closer to her face as if failing vision was responsible for the contents. As if she could make it read as something else just by getting the print into better focus.

“You spoke to the writer?” she asked.

“You could say that,” Draco hedged.

She set the paper down. 

“Theo, Neville and I went to the office,” Draco said. He tried to keep the words casual and unconcerned, but they insisted on hurrying out in a rush. “We invited the writer back to Neville’s place. I obliviated the person at the front desk. Then we killed him.”

Hermione blinked a few times and regarded him. Draco waited for her to call him a monster. To tell him to get out, that this wasn’t what she’d meant when she said they’d do whatever it took to take power and keep another dark lord from rising. She didn’t. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the blouse he’d torn in his haste to get it off. Draco could feel the red of his flush creeping up his cheeks, and he was so pale she had to see it. She still didn’t say anything, however. She crossed the room to a decorative mirror — well, the frame was decorative — and finger-combed her hair first one way, then the other, all in silence.

He was going to die, standing here.

At last, she said, “I hope you didn’t do it quickly.”

Draco almost choked. “No,” he managed to get out. “We didn’t.”

“How?”

“We gave him a sample of what things had been like at Hogwarts. Told him if he could stand it without begging, we’d let him go.”

“And he couldn’t stand it?” Hermione turned and waited for his answer.

“No,” Draco said with more satisfaction than he wanted to admit. “He could not.”

She glanced down at her blouse again and began to pull it off. “I think I’ll take this to the seamstress,” she said. “I don’t want to be bothered to fix it myself. “

“Hermione?”

Her eyes flashed when she looked up again. “He deserved it,” she said. “What do you want to get for dinner? I’m thinking I want take away curry.”

. . . . . . . . . .

You lie in bed, arm flung out. You’re drained. Spent. 

Theo lets out a laugh next to you. “We’re awful people,” he says.

“Probably,” you admit.

“Nature’s drive, though. Be around death, something down in your cells tells you to make a baby, make a new person to replace the old one.”

You look at him because while the last few hours might have been divine, it wasn’t the kind of divinity that resulted in conception. He props himself up on one elbow and grins. “Well,” he says, “fortunately neither of us comes with that sort of equipment. I’d be rubbish at baby-minding.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “Me too,” you admit.

“Nah.” He lies back down. “They can’t be harder than some of your plants.”

“Tomorrow’s going to be interesting,” you say. Babies are an abstraction neither of you had to worry about, but the fallout of your decision to make this public… that will take some work. Some violence, you (hope) expect.

“Next few weeks, really,” Theo says.

. . . . . . . . . .

Agatha Witherstrom looked in her cupboards and grimaced with annoyance because her husband had only left the crumbs in the cereal box, and she hated it when he did that. Twenty years of marriage this fall and he still put practically empty boxes back instead of writing down on the list that they needed more.

It was a good reason to get breakfast from a street vendor on the way to work. Not that work was going all that well. She’d expected to be a senior reporter by now. No, an editor. A managing editor. Instead, she was still just a reporter and, worse, she was supposed to write up a column on 20 household charms every witch should know. She’d asked whether she could slant it as a critique of the lack of practical curriculum at Hogwarts and been told absolutely not. She was not a political reporter. She was in the _Life_ section, and people turned to that for fun little stories and tips. They didn’t want to see another story about what was wrong with the government or the schools.

She decided she’d get two donuts. This was the sort of day that called for two donuts and an extra-large coffee with sugar.

She was taking her first bite, congratulating herself on making sure there was at least one nice thing in her day — her therapist had recommended trying to consciously ensure there was something to enjoy in every day — when she tripped right outside the front entrance to _The Daily Prophet_. She caught herself before she fell, and was congratulating herself on that too when she glanced down to find what the heel of her shoe had gotten caught on.

It was the hem of the trousers of some bum, facedown in the street.

Only it wasn’t.

She looked a bit closer and realized the skin was far too pale. Waxy. She nudged at him with one foot, and the body flopped over, baring a face and a piece of paper stuck onto him with a steak knife.

She knew him. She _knew_ him.

Agatha screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Breenieweenie, bayleesan Nantai, and ersosjyn for taking a look over that sex scene for me. And, as always, all my love to Olivie Blake, who keeps me from committing many errors.


	35. Chapter 35

Draco found a reason to go into work with Hermione. He didn’t have one. Not really. What he had was a real fear that when that body was found, she’d end up cornered. He’d go mad with fear of that at home. Better to be in the corner of her office, feet tucked under him, _Potions_ magazine in his hand.

“This is from 1974,” he said. “I’ve heard about doctor’s offices having old magazines, but never extrapolated that to politicians.”

“Take it up with my secretary,” Hermione suggested. She’d barely sat down before she started getting inundated with flying memos. Draco was tempted to drag the whole lot of the things into the bin and take care of them with a quick _Incendio_, but maybe today wasn’t the day for that. Play it calm. And he wasn’t going to take anything up with that gorgon who sat outside Hermione’s office. That woman terrified him and she’d never said more to him than perfectly correct greetings.

“I think I’ll just learn more about what was considered cutting edge before I was born.”

“Suit yourself.”

He didn’t get much time to study the radical proposal, made by one Sagium Velder-Oakes, that British potioneers consider some non-native plants to have one or two aphrodisiac properties worth investigating. He barely skimmed the first paragraph before the door exploded open, banging into the cabinet behind it, and Neville pushed his way in. Theo came behind him, shutting the door with almost fussy tidiness.

“Have a fun night?” Hermione inquired dryly, her face still down over bureaucracy.

“Spent most of it fucking like rabbits in heat,” Theo said. “Since you asked.”

She looked up at that. “How nice,” she said. “I meant the murder part.”

Theo shrugged.

“That’s what we’re here about,” Neville said. “You have an in with Skeeter at that place. Use it.”

“To do what?”

“Get her on our side.”

Hermione nodded, threw a handful of powder in the floo, and connected right to Rita Skeeter. Direct line. Draco wasn’t sure whether he should be impressed or worried by that. 

Skeeter’s face wasn’t improved by the dancing flames. Nor was her cooing delight. “Hermione, darling. You are the talk of the newsroom this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Skeeter leaned forward, the classic pose of the false confidant. “Someone killed poor Frank.”

“Frank?” Hermione’s ability to feign confusion had improved.

“Franky Goffswallow. Wrote that little article about you yesterday? I tried to stop him. I said, Frank, she’s a lovely girl, and you aren’t the expert on her you think you are, but he didn’t listen, and now look at him. Dead.”

“Oh yes,” Hermione said. “That article.”

“Not a fan, were you?” Rita Skeeter clucked. “Dreadful, really. Completely one-sided, and I’m sure that girl he talked to had a grudge. It’s as if he’d Never heard of journalistic integrity, and, between you me and the wall, he had certain delusions of grandeur.”

Draco was going to choke on not responding to that.

“I was wondering if you and I could meet. I’d wanted to do a a little counterpoint to that, but now, maybe it’s not the best idea.”

Rita almost slavered in her eagerness. “No, sweetheart, it’s the _best _idea. You don’t know how the press works, darling. You’re still so young, for all you’re brilliant. If you don’t say anything, people will assume you’re hiding, especially since that article about you was stuck to his chest with a knife.”

“It was?” Hermione flicked a glance away from the floor at Neville, who shrugged. “How gruesome.”

“It was,” Rita said. “Poor Agatha — bit of a dullard, works down in the life section — found him this morning and she’s still shaking.” 

“Maybe you could come here?” Hermione said. “I’m getting the feeling I shouldn’t head over there.”

“Crawling with aurors,” Rita said cheerfully. “Not that they seem to be able to figure out a thing other than the poor man’s dead, which I could have told them. I’ll be over in a trice, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

The floo clicked off, and Draco stared into the empty fireplace grate. Neville pulled the magazine out of his hands and made a ‘mmm-ing’ sound.

“What?” Theo asked.

“This one,” Neville said, pointing to an illustration of a flower in the article Draco hadn’t been reading. “Turned out to be useful in a few potions that treat fevers, but it’s not going to do anything for your sex life.”

“I was unaware our sex life needed livening up,” Theo said.

“Oh god,” Hermione muttered. “Please no. No details.”

“But, if you think so, after this little meeting with Rita is over, we could stop by a little shop I know and get a — “

“Please, stop,” Hermione said. “I’m begging you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re boring in bed,” Theo said. “Maybe if you took a little time off to buy a few toys — “

“She’s not — “ Draco started to say, then stopped as Hermione swung her head around to glare at him and Theo began to laugh. “How long do you think it will take Rita to get here?” he settled on instead.

. . . . . . . . . .

The answer turns out to be, ‘not long.’ Rita Skeeter must have apparated from her desk to the Ministry without stopping to do so much as take a piss because she knocks on Hermione’s door within minutes of pulling her head out of the floo.

You’ve forgotten how much you dislike her since you saw her last. The aggressive scent of her perfume reminds you. 

“How _are_ you holding up?” she asks, flinging herself right past you and Theo to pat Hermione on the cheek. “You poor _dear_. Absolutely everyone thinks it’s a deliberate attempt to put a chill on journalism. It was one of He Who Must Not be Named’s favorite little games, you know. Threaten and kill and keep the press from running anything _too_ uncomplimentary.”

You close the door. Theo moves to stand in front of it.

“Actually, Miss Skeeter, that’s why I wanted to speak to you today.”

She spins around when she hears the words and sees you there. Unprepossessing. Rumpled. Something in your demeanor must have changed in the last year, however, because she doesn’t dismiss you out of hand. Her eyes don’t glide over you in quite the same way they did the last time you met with her. Then she only cared about Hermione, and you might as well have been a book she’d brought along with her. Mildly interesting at best. Now her eyes narrow and her lips purse.

“Neville Longbottom,” she says. “Still gay, I see.”

“Thoroughly,” Theo says.

“Did you kill poor Frank?” She pulls her quill half out, then seems to think better of it and tucks it away. That’s good. She’s not as foolish as she wants people to think.

“Yes,” you say.

“So, Rita,” Hermione says so quickly you know she’s nervous. “What we really want to know — “

“We,” she says flatly. She glances around the room, her eyes measuring all four of you. Her hand is still on that quill, and you wonder how much magic she’s tucked away into it. More than just dictation, you suspect. “Are there more?”

“No,” Hermione says. Her smile is a newly hatched political one;insincere but so, so warm. “When you want to get a thing done, small groups work better than large ones.”

The door opens again, this time to admit a very flustered Harry Potter followed by a downright furious secretary. “I’m sorry, Madam Minister,” the secretary says. “He simply wouldn’t stop and I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Hermione says. “Thank you, but if you could stop anyone else, I would appreciate it.”

“With whatever force is necessary?”

You notice Draco edging very slightly away from the door.

“Yes,” Hermione says. “I’ll sign the paperwork if things get out of hand.”

“Very good.” A brisk nod of her head, a slight moment where she eyes Harry Potter and lets him consider that next time she _will_ hurt him, and Hermione’s secretary lets herself out.

“There’s paperwork?” Theo asks. He actually sounds incredulous, which might be a first. 

“There’s paperwork for everything,” Hermione mutters. 

You’re too busy watching Harry Potter stumble to a halt and try to figure out what’s going on. “Why is she here?” he asks, waving a hand at Rita Skeeter, who bristles. You’re hardly the first murderers she’s ever interviewed, but she doesn’t like the way Harry isn’t happy to see her.

“I’m doing a story,” she says. “It’s what I do for a living, darling. Perhaps you remember.”

He glowers at her before turning to Hermione. “Did you see that article?”

“Oh lord.” Theo casually transfigures a pile of law books into a soft armchair and throws himself down into it. The fabric has taken on the text of whichever book was on top, and gold letters offer instructions on filing the proper forms for stimulant imports. Your eyes trace along the polysyllabic verbiage until it disappears under Theo’s arse. “Are you always this far behind, Potter?” he asks.

“Rita,” you say. “How do you feel about being the press support for a little — “

“Coup?” she asks. She flicks a glance at Theo. “Can you make me one of those chairs, you darling boy? There’s no comfortable place to sit in here.”

Theo obliges, and she sits. She tucks one ankle behind the other and dimples at you. “So, tell me,” she asks. “Is our Harry Potter part of your little group.”

“No,” Draco says, right as Hermione says, “Yes.”

“Still the old rivalry,” she says. She clucks her tongue. “You should include him, Mr. Malfoy. He gives you — “

“Nothing,” Draco said with more bitterness than you’d expect from him. “Cleaning up his messes is what he gives us. Killed anyone today, Potter?”

“No,” Harry snaps. “How about you?”

“That was yesterday,” Theo says. “Why? Feel left out?”

“I — “

“There’s always room for one more,” Theo says. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, then sticks the tip of his thumb in his mouth. Harry Potter blushes as red as Ginny Weasley’s hair. 

“Would you stop?” Hermione asks.

“Let me have my fun, Minister.”

“We’re concerned,” Hermione says, pushing down both Theo’s laughter and Harry’s fumbling nerves with the sort of prim but determined tone she used to use when she was a prefect, doing her best to keep the Weasley twins in line. It almost worked on them. It absolutely works on Harry.

Theo, well, he closes his mouth, but his amused smirk doesn’t go away.

“We are concerned,” Hermione says again, “about the increased radicalization of some of the population in the wake of the war. Wizarding Britain has a history of ignoring the rise of Dark Lords until it’s too late. Grindelwald might have been merely bad luck, but Grindelwald and Voldemort in such a short span of time suggests there are structural flaws innate to the culture that we — “

“Want to root out?” Rita Skeeter suggests.

“Things like the Squib Protection Act are a step in that direction,” Hermione says. “But laws only go so far, and sometimes you have to be willing to go above and beyond.”

“To take on responsibility as a burden,” Harry says. He sits on the edge of Hermione’s desk.

“To stand in the way of some young man who might take inspiration from the past,” Hermione says. “To prevent the third war.”

Rita Skeeter pulls out her quill. “You’ll give me full access,” she says. It’s barely a question. Hermione glances up at you, you nod, and Skeeter follows that whole thing. She smiles. You wonder if, like a shark, new teeth are constantly growing behind the ones she has. You wouldn’t be surprised. “Then let’s get started,” she says. “Talk to me about squibs, darling.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Excerpt from a Daily Prophet article by Rita Skeeter_

_… lovely things about the fresh blood waking up our staid, old Ministry are the insights they bring to age old problems. Who, for example, doesn’t have a squib cousin or uncle no one talks about? How many of us have had a younger sibling who suddenly went to live with extended family instead of going to Hogwarts? It has always been a thing of indelicacy. But now, with the Squib Protection Act, we finally see some legal safeguards being put in place around vulnerable members of our society._

_Some of the tender young shoots growing up out of the ashes of the Second Wizarding War come from our oldest families. The Notts, the Longbottoms, and the Malfoys have long been established players in wizarding politics, and Neville Longbottom’s parents in particular are tragic heroes of the First Wizarding War, doomed to live on at St. Mungo’s, never to know the role their own son has taken in this post-war rebuilding. And it is indeed quite a role, as, this reporter is happy to whisper in your ear, that young Neville Longbottom, hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, is no bit player these days, but is a close confidant of our young Muggle-born Minister, offering counsel she’s not too proud to…_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Corban Yaxley folded _The Daily Prophet_ and set it neatly on the cot next to himself. His blanket — such as it was — was pulled tight. His face was washed. He had little patience for people who let themselves go in prison. Perhaps there had been an excuse for that when the Dementors had been here, but now it was just a rather dull place to live with a rather uncomfortable mattress. Anyone who let standards slip with provocations as petty as those deserved the sort of fate the Carrows had met.

Nothing flies as fast as gossip in a prison.

He rose, stretched his arms out, and picked up his breakfast tray to pass it out the door to the waiting warden. A new one, this, and afraid of men with Marks on their arms. To keep that fear in the front of the man’s mind, Yaxley kept his sleeves rolled despite the disgustingly vulgar casualness of it. 

The man didn’t meet his eyes as he took the tray. He summoned a sneer that barely touched his lips, and said, “One of these days you’ll meet the same fate the rest of yous did.”

“Rest?” Yaxley asked. “Has there been another unfortunate incident?”

“No.” It wasn’t a stammer, but it was near enough. Yaxley smiled. Fear had a taste to it. The Dark Arts had a feel and fear had a taste, and once you got used to the one on your tongue, the other was never far behind. 

The new warden moved away, gathering trays from lesser inmates. People who’d murdered their wives. People who’d gone on rampages in Muggle neighborhoods. Petty criminals, all of them, their taste for darkness easily sated by a quick rush.

True Death Eaters understood there was a delicacy to this. They were fastidious. They learned to savor cruelty the way a connoisseur savored good whiskey. He missed Dolohov’s slight smile as his victims realized he had no intention of granting them a quick death. He missed the way the Lestrange brothers would link arms and laugh. 

Not that he needed them. The old guard was just that — old — and Rita Skeeter’s article highlighted who the new vanguard was. Not the ones he would have expected. Longbottom. A mudblood. But, times changed, and leadership took on new faces. New names. But underneath the mask, it was always the same.

Always.

He looked forward to meeting this generation’s leaders in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to OlivieBlake for continuing to beta read this monstrosity.


	36. Chapter 36

Whispers that had started in houses and pubs slowly made their way onto the street. Voices that had been quiet became louder. Harry Potter had murdered a man and gotten away with it. A man who criticized Hermione Granger was found dead on the steps of the _Prophet_. “But what were they like?” people asked Ron Weasley, waiting for him to say they had a temper or weren’t trustworthy, or anything negative at all. He didn’t. Not once. “Didn’t you date her for a while?” people would press, and all he would say is, “Things don’t always work out. I’m very happy for her. No, we don’t see each other much these days.”

Then he would go home and drink himself into unconsciousness, voices he’d never quite managed to banish from his head whispering that he wasn’t good enough, that he’d never measure up, that in the end, no one would ever choose him.

Ugly voices. Ugly scars from a war. But he never stood up on a box in Diagon Alley and yelled out that his best friends were wrong, that they had taken the wrong turn, that no one should trust them.

Others did. Draco woke one morning to discover Gregory Goyle had given what was called a ‘rousing speech’ at a discreet meeting. No one seemed to have been there. Everyone knew what had been said. Draco was more than willing to commit murder. He’d been deep in You Know Who’s pockets. He’d been a willing collaborator with the Carrows at Hogwarts.

That last bit left him pacing in Neville’s flat, fists clenching and unclenching as he walked from the window to the opposite wall, then back again. 

“Goyle’s an idiot,” Theo said from where he sat on the sofa. Harry Potter shifted slightly to the left to get out of the way of the feet Theo stretched out to rest at his thighs. “And you’re giving me a headache.”

“I held potions to his bloody mouth,” Draco said. He stopped to glare down at Theo. “I scraped him up off the floor when they weren’t happy with his work.”

“And now he’s telling everyone you’re a dick,” Theo said, nodding. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. He’s a follower, and right now the person to follow is Corban Yaxley and his little act of contrition.”

“Would you mind?” Neville asked.

Theo shrugged. “I thought it was clever.”

“It wasn’t,” Harry said.

“You, my friend, wouldn’t know clever if it came in your mouth.”

“What are we going to do about him?” Draco demanded.

“About Goyle?” Theo picked his feet up and put them into Harry’s lap. Harry shoved them to the floor. “How about nothing. Nothing has always worked for me.”

“He’s trying to rally people against us!”

“We could kill him,” Neville said. When all three of them looked at him, he shrugged. “Or have Hermione throw him in Azkaban. It’s what the Ministry does, you know.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_From the Auror Blotter_

_— charms that had been imported without appropriate registration. The witch paid the cost of the ticket and did not dispute the charges._

_One wizard was picked up for making a public nuisance of himself. He’s being held in Azkaban until trial. Name is being withheld for reasons of privacy. No trial date has been announced._

_A dozen wizards were asked to disperse last Friday night. They had gathered outside a bookseller and were demanding justice. They left without incident upon request by Auror Potter. Further interviews did not determine any cause for their complaint, and the matter has been dismissed._

_Three young wizards were stopped for exploding a —_

. . . . . . . . . .

Lucius Malfoy was having what most people would call an excellent year. Far better than he had expected. Far better than he deserved, if he was being honest with himself. That, however, was a thought crime he very rarely made himself suffer. No, he preferred to think of his post-Voldemort hardships as a temporary, undeserved blip in the otherwise uninterrupted upward trajectory of his life. 

The excellence of that year — of his entire life — was ruined when a morning owl brought a copy of Corban’s wretched, self-serving book and a simple note. _Meet me at the old place._

Lucius fumed at first. He was not at Corban Yaxley’s beck and call. He had _never_ been at Corban Yaxley’s beck and call. Even in those final, wretched months with Voldemort, when he hadn’t had a wand, when his son had been in danger, when his wife had gotten a brittle look around her mouth he had worked hard to forget — even in those months, he’d been better than Yaxley. Yaxley was an upstart. A nothing. A parasite.

Narcissa glanced at him as she walked past, a book of decorating swatches in one hand, quill in the other. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” Lucius said shortly, followed by, “I’ll take care of it.”

A brief flicker of his wife’s eyelashes warned him that she wouldn’t be put off for long. Lucius tossed her Corban’s _Contrition_.

She caught it midair, quill and swatch book floating placidly next to her as she flipped through the pages. “He’s overly fond of adverbs,” she said. “And I don’t care for the font. Why did you order this? Are you planning on joining him in his bid for power?”

Lucius coughed, then smiled at his wife. God, she’d been a beautiful thing when he’d met her. All wide eyes and practiced upward glances that would set a man’s heart to racing, and send blood from his brain right to another part of his anatomy. Lucius had been terrified to even think of those parts back in the days when he’d sat in the Black’s parlor and felt sweat trickling down his neck. A Malfoy was one thing. Rich. Beyond Rich. But the Blacks, they were another.

She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Not to mention the smartest. 

One of her sisters had been insane, and the other an idealist who’d ended up with a dead husband and dead child for her troubles. But Narcissa, she was the beautiful flower bending in the wind by the brook, still nodding at her own reflection when the storm passed, when sturdier seeming blooms had been blown away. “Yaxley wishes to meet with me,” Lucius said. The words felt sour in his mouth. “That’s his calling card.”

“Fascinating.” Narcissa closed the book and set it on a nearby table that was both priceless and permanently borrowed from a museum, which had in turn stolen it from a French noble. The book hit the table with a dull thud. “I’ll have the staff take care of that,” she said. “Naturally, you must meet with him.”

“I’d planned on it.” 

“Suggest he work with the current Minister,” Narcissa said. “When the violence he’s so carefully setting up becomes bad enough — “

“I think dear Harry Potter has more to do with the current rallies than Corban,” Lucius objected.

“Corban lay the kindling,” Narcissa said. “Potter was only the spark. Now we’ll have to make sure the results don’t burn their way through our son.”

“Meaning we back the Minister,” Lucius said.

“And all her allies. Sometimes, in times of crisis, a strong hand is needed.”

Lucius smiled. It really had been an excellent year, and it was only going to get better. “I do love you,” he said.

Narcissa plucked her quill out of the air and turned a page in her swatch book. “I was thinking cream for the guest room,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think no one would ever set himself against you,” Lucius said. “Not if he wanted to survive.”

“Cream it is. Give Corban my love.” 

. . . . . . . . . .

Marietta Edgecomb smoothed her hair, then folded her hands in her lap, then smoothed her hair again. Her skirt had bunched up under her and the ridges of cloth pressed into her flesh. Her mouth felt dry. She could taste metal in it as if she’d been licking a fencepost. Anxiety, she supposed.

A person could blame a lot on anxiety.

Rita Skeeter clucked her tongue again, and smiled with such warmth — such _sincerity _— Marietta managed a shaky exhale. “She’s always been ruthless,” the reporter said, and her quill trembled eagerly above her pad, keen to take down whatever Marietta said. “Even as a girl. But, really, a dark curse seems a bit much to believe.”

“After… after the other one — “

“Frank,” Rita said. She shook her head. “The Aurors say they can’t find a suspect. Dead, certainly, but no evidence.”

“The article was pinned to him.” Marietta’s voice rose in a squeak.

Rita leaned forward. The smaller distance seemed intimate. Conspiratorial. “I’m not arguing with you, darling. I think anyone with eyes to see knows he was murdered for speaking out against the Minister. But they’ve no proof.”

“It’s because of Potter,” Marietta said bitterly. Harry Potter had always taken Hermione Granger’s side. She’d never known what he’d seen in her. Too bossy. Too much of a grind, and that was even before the bitch had cursed her. That hadn’t made Potter turn on her. Not even that. Not even Dark magic. Cho had tried to talk to him, and it hadn’t mattered. “As long as Harry Potter is an Auror, no one is going to do anything against her.”

. . . . . . . . . .

They made their plans in back rooms. They met in people’s front parlors, and in parks, and passed around things to eat while they talked and fumed and slowly made plans. Because it wasn’t right. Because Harry Potter might have been a hero once, but he’d killed a man. Killed him right in front of all of them. Or in front of their friends. Or in front of friends of friends. As the group grew, each person had a smaller and smaller connection to the boy who’d actually died, but that didn’t matter because they were going to march. They were going to march on the Ministry, and they were going to demand that Harry Potter be sent to Azkaban, that Hermione Granger resign.

They picked a day. They set their plans. They were going to make things right.

. . . . . . . . . .

Lucius Malfoy had not expected to find Corban Yaxley as amenable to his suggestions as he was.

“It’s all a game, my friend,” he said. “And the goal is to end up — “

“On top?” Lucius asked wryly.

Corban smiled. “Not on top,” he said. “People at the top get assassinated. No, we want to be one step removed, always ready to help. Always deferential. Supportive. Still there when one emperor falls, ready to hold a hand out to the next one and offer all our expertise.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Rita wrote the name with a tiny flourish. She used dicta-quills for most things, but now and again, she indulged in the pleasure of writing a thing out by hand.

Marietta Edgecomb’s name, for example.

Writing with quills was an art. It forced you to slow down. To be beautiful. To take pride in who you were and what you did. She’d seen the sort of pens muggles used. Now and again, a Muggle-born would insist on continuing to use them. “They’re more practical,” she’d heard a witch claim once.

Which was nonsense. Or, perhaps, it was true, but it hardly mattered. Rita admired her own handwriting. The capital M had an especially lovely flourish.

Then she tied the note to the leg of one of the office owls without signing it and sent it off to the Minister at her home.

Full access to the new regime. She was going to treat herself to a day at the salon to reward herself for this little professional victory. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione pulled the note off the owl’s leg, offered the bird a treat rather absentmindedly, and unfolded the parchment. The tired, distracted look on her face hardened into fury. “Bad news?” Draco asked as blandly as he could.

“Rita got us the name of the informant for that article,” she said.

“Please tell me it was a Weasley.” 

The look she threw him would have murdered a weaker man. It might have sent him into another room shaking earlier in their marriage. Being comfortable in his own skin — in his own life — felt new enough that he still wasn’t sure it wouldn’t disappear at any moment, but it still let him just smile back at her glare. “A man can dream,” he said.

“It was Marietta Edgecomb,” she said.

The name clearly meant something to her, but Draco had only the vaguest recollection of who the girl was. He spread his hands and cocked his brows up, an invitation to explain.

“She was the one who ratted out Dumbledore’s Army,” Hermione said. “Filthy, lying, _sneaking_… I hope she looks in the mirror every day and remembers.”

“Which would happen because?” Draco remembered a girl had turned Potter’s little study group in, but he’d been so caught up in the sheer pleasure of seeing Potter in trouble he hadn’t stopped to think much about her. 

“I put a hex on the paper we signed,” she said. She said it so _smugly _that Draco felt a chill go down his spine.

“And?” he prompted.

“It wrote out ‘sneak’ in giant pustules on her forehead. Which scarred.”

Well, that would explain why she’d carried a grudge. “Maybe it’s a good thing Neville is making most of the decisions,” Draco said, _accioing_ the piece of paper out of her hands.

“Why is that?”

“You’re fucking scary.” He stood up and headed for the door. He hoped he could find another copy of that _Prophet_ article. 

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

Draco glanced back over his shoulder. “We’ve already decided we don’t tolerate criticism of our regime,” he said softly. “We took care of the reporter who printed her nonsense. Now I’m going to take care of her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Olivie Blake for beta reading!


	37. Chapter 37

The first crowd was small. A few people. Malcontents, really. Nothing to get worried about. The Aurors arrived, said a few stern words, and they dispersed.

Nothing to be worried about.

Even when Marietta Edgecomb’s body was found, the crowd was not that large. Perhaps it took a little more vigor for the Aurors to end the loitering — that’s what they were still calling it. Loitering. Or sometimes boys being boys. Or even, with a slightly more disapproving shape to the lips, hooligans. But no one called it a protest. Not yet. Not even when one of the crowd yelled out that the Aurors were protecting the murderers. Everyone knew who killed her. Who _had her killed_. 

But everyone went home, and nothing happened.

A rock was thrown the next time crowds gathered.

A bottle filled with exploding dust the time after that.

The day the third major protest began to rise up, Corban Yaxley slid in the Ministry of Magic and walked, unnoticed, between nice young men and women, and less nice middle-aged men and women, and downright cynical older men and women. It was odd, he thought to himself, to move along these floors as someone nearly invisible. As someone unremarkable. He’d been feared here once.

A heady feeling.

He noticed his book placed so everyone could see the cover on the little news and coffee stand. A woman picked it up as she waited for her drink, opened it, read the inside for a moment before putting it down.

“Not your thing?” the coffee seller asked.

The woman shrugged. “I’m all for people saying they’re sorry, but when people are out at night writing graffiti on the walls and causing trouble, you need a little more force than an apology.

Yaxley smiled. He crossed over to the lifts and slipped in behind a dull-looking man in a bowler hat. “Minister’s office,” the man said, and the lift began moving.

How very convenient.

. . . . . . . . . .

You can hear them. The marchers aren’t even trying to hide it anymore. And _The Daily Prophet _might report them as children looking for a cause, but that dismissive tone doesn’t seem to stop more and more people from joining up each time they take to the streets.

They’re yelling

(screaming)

about how they aren’t going to take it, about how times need to change, about corruption in the Ministry, and where the hell were they when the likes of Corban Yaxley roamed the halls. When people like

(It’s a shame to waste even a drop of magical blood, Mr. Longbottom, but if you insist on being defiant, we will teach you a lesson.)

the Carrows held sway at Hogwarts. They were safe in their beds was what they were. They weren’t challenging power. Now that the people in power were trying to help them — were trying to make sure that no one like those monsters ever came to power again — now it’s safe to complain, so now they do.

Safe.

How nice it must be to feel safe.

(We’ll just toss him out the window. If he bounces, he’s a wizard. If he splatters across the pavement, well, no big loss. No one cares about — )

Hermione’s Squib Protection Act is making the world better. You’re standing in the shadows and making decisions, and she’s implementing them, and Draco is there, and Theo, and you’re all _doing this_ to make sure nothing like Voldemort ever happens again.

You’d rather be in your _fucking greenhouse_ than sitting here listening to fools scream in the streets. And maybe you haven’t done as much yet as you’d like. You never claimed you were going to make some sort of utopia. You’re still just kids. It’s going to take time.

Another shout wafts up from the street. There’s so much

(screaming)

Shouting. So much. 

You didn’t want this. You wanted to have peace. But if they don’t want to be protected from another Dark Lord with a peaceful Minister working slowly and steadily, protected from interference, then you can adjust. You are nothing if not adaptable. You adapted from being the fat little loser. You can adapt to this.

If they want violence, you can give them that.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco had his eyes closed and was half asleep on the sofa when the sharp knock came on the door of Hermione’s office. 

“You’d best pull your pants and trousers back up,” she said. He grumbled, but it wasn’t as if he wanted to be got with his cock hanging out by some political visitor, so up they went. He was just buttoning them when the door opened, and Corban Yaxley stopped into the room.

Draco’s hand went to his want immediately. Hermione’s did as well. “I don’t believe we have any sort of book event scheduled,” she said in a cold voice. “And you aren’t welcome here.”

Yaxley put his hands up in front of him but made no move to leave. “If the Minister will indulge me with but a moment of her time,” he said.

“I think not,” Draco said.

“I had the loveliest meeting with your father the other day,” Yaxley went on as if Draco hadn’t spoken. “We were quite close back when Death Eater wasn’t a dirty word — “

“It’s always been a dirty word,” Hermione said. “Phrase.”

“ — and he had glowing things to say about his daughter-in-law.” Yaxley smiled. “I’m sure he was really just repeating what Narcissa said. We all know who wears the pants in that family.”

“If you’re trying to ingratiate yourself, it’s failing,” Hermione said.

“And I see that pattern has repeated itself in young Draco’s marriage,” Yaxley said. He glanced down at Draco’s waistline, and Draco was suddenly possessed by the absolute surety Corban Yaxley knew perfectly well they were five minutes out from orgasm, and he was amused by that.

Yaxley casually transfigured a chair out of some of Hermione’s endless stacks of books and folders and sat down. It was impressive — beyond impressive, really. Wandless, voiceless, and significant. Draco’s grip on his wand tightened.

“Oh, do put that away,” Yaxley said. “I just want to make a small suggestion — one your father put in my head — and if you aren’t amendable, I will leave peaceably.”

“You wouldn’t know peaceable if it shat on your head,” Hermione said.

“Possibly true,” Yaxley said. “But you won’t get peace if your plan is to ask for it nicely.”

“I —”

“You won’t get peace through legislation,” he said. His smile was bland. Courtly. “You get peace by demanding it. At the point of a wand. Especially now that your friend committed murder.”

“Harry — “

“Belongs in Azkaban, does he not.”

“It was self-defense,” Draco said. He couldn’t believe he was defending Harry Potter. How dare he be forced into standing up for that rotter. “Potter no more belongs in Azkaban than — “

“Than I do,” Hermione said. “What do you want.”

“Out of prison,” Yaxley said.

“Which you obviously are.”

“Listened to.”

“Based on the near-riots in the streets, you’ve gotten that for yourself too,” Hermione said. She waved her hand, and his armchair reverted back into a pile of books. He fell onto his arse, then pushed himself to his knees on his way to rise. Hermione held that hand out. “No,” she said. “Stay there.”

Yaxley dipped his head in an amused assent that wouldn’t have been out of place in a diplomatic soiree. “As you like.”

“We were discussing what you want,” Hermione said. “Most specifically, what you want from_ me_.”

“Your ear,” Yaxley said smoothly. “Or perhaps young Longbottom’s, who, I understand, make all the real decisions.”

“I have no intention of severing my ear from my head. And Neville is not your concern.” 

“I mean metaphorically, of course.” Another one of his smiles. “And I’m not quite the helpless supplicant.”

“You’ve never been helpless in your life.”

“I can offer you unrest,” he said. The words were soft, and Draco’s initial reaction was to snap that they had all the unrest they needed. They were on the verge of all the young men he’d riled up to his cause marching in the street, demanding Potter’s head. Demanding _Hermione’s_ head, and he’d burn them all before he let them have her. All the years they’d hated one another had ceased to matter when she’d killed Filch for him. All the misunderstandings had ended in Paris.

“We don’t need,” he said, then stopped. All the people who’d bought his book were a weapon in his hand. They studied his words. He was the one who’d primed them to violence. He could steer them.

Maybe.

Draco was pretty sure there was a proverb about having a dragon by the tail.

“You think you can direct them,” Draco said.

“I know I can,” Yaxley said.

“And you want to direct them to support me,” Hermione said. She sounded as if she didn’t believe it, and Draco didn’t blame her. “Why?”

“I enjoy a dark lord,” Yaxley said. He glanced down at the knees he had pressed into the floor, and his mouth twitched. “Or lady.”

Hermione flicked a glance at Draco, and he shrugged. This was her call. If it were up to him, he’d kill the man right now, but he wasn’t the one with his name on the door. If the mob came calling, it was her they’d be after. 

She put her foot out. The black patent gleamed even in the office light. That she could walk in the things amazed him, and more than once, Draco had blessed the gods of fashion that displays of power did not require him to wear high heels. _Very_ high heels. “Mr. Yaxley,” she said, and something in that tone made Draco take a wary step back.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I’m sure you are aware my parents were Muggles,” Hermione said.

He nodded.

“A demographic you had quite the issue with in the past.”

“You will find I am adaptable.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid before I decide whether to consider your proposal that you manipulate your little reader clubs for me in exchange for being listened to upon whatever rare occasion you manage to say something worthwhile, I’m going to demand a little proof that you have adapted.”

Yaxley’s face was a study in polite inquiry.

“My shoes are a bit dirty, Mr. Yaxley. I suggest you demonstrate your newfound humility and make yourself useful at the same time by cleaning them with your tongue.”

Draco had to give Corban Yaxley this: he didn’t even hesitate.

. . . . . . . . . .

“What do we want?”

“Change!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

The chant is getting louder, and you clench your fists and stand on the steps of the Ministry. You don’t like this. You hate it. Theo’s arms are crossed, and Harty Potter looks like he’s bitten into an apple and found nothing but rot.

“This is your fault,” you say to him. 

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but before he can, Corban Yaxley speaks. “Mr. Longbottom, if I may be so bold, this fire would have ignited anyway. Mr. Potter was merely a —”

“Shut up,” Harry says. “I don’t need you defending me.”

“You do what you claim you can,” Hermione says in a low voice, “and you get to stay around. That doesn’t mean you speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“I don’t like this,” you say. Yaxley is exactly what you’re fighting against. Exactly what you don’t want. 

“If we want to stay in power, we need him,” Hermione says. You aren’t sure she’s right, but only in that you aren’t sure you can stay in power even with him. You can kill a reporter, and leave his informant in pieces on the street, and kill and kill and scream and laugh and the blood is —

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. The marchers are getting louder, coming closer. Yaxley is going to turn them to supporting you. That’s all. You can get rid of him later. Once things have settled down.

_ . . . . . . . . . . _

_ Changes Afoot at Ministry for Magic _

_ In an exciting turn of events, marchers converging on the Ministry were stopped in the streets by best-selling author Corban Yaxley, who exhorted them not to overthrow the government but to root out the corrupt influences and allow the current reformers to burn through the last of the vestigial edifices that had allowed Voldemort to rise to power. _

Rita Skeeter sat back and chewed on the end of her quill, which was a disgusting habit, but it was essential to get this exactly right. 

_ The Head of the Department of Aurors will be going to Azkaban for allowing corruption to flourish under his watch, and Harry Potter will be attending mandatory counseling to help him process the many mental wounds he suffered fighting for us all in the last war. _

That was good. She liked that bit quite a lot. How to let a man get away with murder? Blame it on the last devil.

_ Mr. Yaxley threw his support one hundred percent behind the current Minister, Hermione Granger, saying he had met with her in private, and she had assured him of her unwavering commitment to change. “She is a strong leader,” he said, “and is what this country needs as we move towards a brighter and freer tomorrow where we value every drop of magical blood.” _

The blood bit was tricky. It called up Voldemort’s unfortunate fetish with ancestry. But it was what the man had said, and Rita didn’t want to misquote something. At least, not something so many people had heard. It would have to stay, though she’d leave out any description of how Hermione Granger’s mouth had twitched up in the same way it had back whenever she had someone over a barrel. That the Minister had a mean streak was no reason to give up direct access to the new power in town. Rita frowned, then made herself relax her face. Frowning caused wrinkles. She’d just get this finished and sent off to the paper, then scurry on over to the Ministry, where the Minister and Yaxley and some of the leaders of the young revolution were getting to know one another over cocktails.

The members of the Wizengamot wouldn’t be there, of course. The young revolutionaries had demanded that be disbanded, and the Ministry had been forced to give in or face rioting in the streets.

That would be a good lead for the next paragraph. Rita bent over her work and hoped they’d have scallops wrapped in bacon at the get-to-know-one-another session. Those were her favorite.


	38. Chapter 38

**Seven Months Later**

Hermione curled one foot under her and _accioed_ the glass over. The liquid inside sparkled as if it were gold, and Draco smiled to see flecks of the same color in her eyes. Funny how he’d never thought she was beautiful when they were kids. He’d been wrong about so many things. Spoiled. Selfish. Racist, if he was being totally honest with himself, though he’d called it blood-purity. Whatever it was, the war had burned all that shit away.

“We did it,” he said.

Theo snorted, “If by ‘it’ you mean took over, sure.”

“As long as we’re holding on to things, it won’t happen again,” Neville said. “Even if right now, we’ve got a bit more direct control than we wanted.”

No Dark Lord, he meant. Draco couldn’t argue with that. Even a hint of anti-squib sentiment was already enough to get your neighbors reporting you. No one went around spouting Anti-Muggle-born feelings anymore. Things were better. Maybe not perfect — no one could hope for perfect — but they were better. He’d hold onto that. 

“It’s for the greater good,” Hermione said. 

Draco brushed her lips across her cheek, but she turned her face and tricked him into a real kiss. “Trickster,” he said, but he lingered there long enough, Theo decided to opine.

“This is your flat. If you two plan to just strip down and go at it, you have a bedroom you could use.”

Draco flipped a rude gesture his way, but pulled himself away from Hermione and went to make a drink for himself. 

“I’m on pelvic rest,” she said. At his perplexed expression, she sighed. “Until the babies come, no more sex.”

“No more orgasms,” Draco muttered as he measured out whiskey for himself but not Hermione. No alcohol. No runny cheese. No orgasms. Turned out the bloody things could start labor, and their Healer seemed afraid they’d slice her fingers off and make her eat them if anything went wrong with the pregnancy or birth, and as a result, she was cautious.

Overcautious.

“You’re naming the boy after me, right?” Theo said.

“The girl, actually,” Hermione said. “Theodora Marie. Assuming you don’t piss me off between now and then.” She was insisting on naming the boy after Potter, which made Draco want to add more alcohol to his glass. Hadrian James. 

“And the other will be little Corban?” Theo asked. “Or are you going for something classic? Severus? Albus?”

Hermione snorted. “Hardly. And, with any luck, Corban will have had an accident by the time I go into labor.”

Corban Yaxley showed no signs of being accident-prone and remained the adored hero of far too many. _So honest_, they said. _So noble. And not power-hungry at all. He didn’t ask for anything for himself, had them install the Minister as Minister Perpetuo. _

Draco looked forward to the day that particular dragon turned at devoured the man holding its tail. Until then…

He turned and raised his glass to the room. “To the best friends — and most beautiful wife — a man could hope for. The darkness is behind us. To our bright futures.”

“To our futures,” they echoed him.

. . . . . . . . . .

It started with a boy. It ended with everyone living happily ever after. Because that’s how all the stories end. If you don’t care for the way one ends, perhaps you were the villain of the piece all along. For villains, as we know, always end up punished. They don’t end up with friends and power and babies on the way.

That only happens to the heroes.

And when it does, we say…

_ All was well. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to sulisaints, slytherinxbadxgirl, and sm for their alpha reading skills!


End file.
